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TPIE 



POEMS, 



SACRED, PASSIONATE, AND HUMOROUS, 



OP" 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 



COMPLETE EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED. 



NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY CLARK, AUSTIN & SMITH, 

3 PAEK EOW AND 3 ANN-STKEET. 
1860. 



1 






Entered, nccordiag to Act of Congress, in the year 1S49, by 

CLAEK, AUSTIN & 00., 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Sonthera District of New York. 



By T^vuiBfer 

Geological Survey 



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x®j, — ,f®\ 



(iii) 



PREFACE. 



During the publication of a cheap, popular edition 
of the following poems in extra numbers of a peri- 
odical, it was thought by the publishers of the present 
volume, that there would be a demand for a handsome 
library edition. The author was induced by the spon- 
taneous offers of his present publishers, to make a 
more careful collection of his Poems than had yet 
appeared, and the result is this fairly printed volume. 

A preface to these Poems would be, in any case, but 
a repetition. The author has suffered, as others have 
done before him, by a reputation too early acquired. 
Many of the poems which follow would have been 
very different, could the popularity of the thought 
embodied in them have been foreseen, and time and 
pains given to make the vehicle more worthy of its 
freight. Mending them has been thought of; but 
the mending of well-known poetry with new verses, 
shows as ill as new pieces of mahogany in old furni- 
ture. 

Thus much said as to the defects of his poetry, the 
author has no hesitation in acknowledging the pedes- 



c 



(iv) 

tal on which public favor has placed him. He wishes 
that he could climb to it again by a better considered 
path — (by a path less accidental, indeed, for he has 
written from present feeling, or for present gain, and 
with no design upon the future.) But, leaving, on the 
turn of the acclivity of life, all he has written, up to 
his meridian, he promises to himself more care in what 
shall occupy the down-hill side, — care, probably, come 
too late, though he feels, in truth, as if his ripeness of 
poetical feeling and perception were all before him. 

To those who read him in his youth, the author 
commends this book. 

New York, March, 1849. 



=--^:=: = @ 



(V) 



CONTENTS. 



I 



SACRED POEMS. 

Page. 

The Healing of the Daughter of Jairus ^ 

The Leper ■• ^ 

David's Grief for his Child H 

The Sacrifice of Abraham ^" 

The Sliunammite ^^ 

Jephthah's Daughter -"* 

Absalom ^^ 

Christ's Entrance into Jerusalem :v- 32 

Baptism of Christ ^^ 

Scene in Gethsemane ^^ 

The Widow of Nain 40 

Hagar in the Wilderness 43 

Rizpah with her Sons, (the day before they were hanged on 

Gibeah) 48 

Lazarus and Mary ^1 

Thoughts while making the Grave of a new-born Child 58 

On the Departure of the Rev. Mr. White from his Parish, when 

chosen President of Wabash College CO 

Birth-day Verses C3 

To my Mother from the Appenines CG 

Lines on leaving Europe "' 

A true Incident ' '" 

The Mother to her Child "^2 

A Thought over a Cradle "^^ 

Thirty-five "^^ 

I* 



--•a 



(vi) 

Page. 

Contemplation .' * 6 

On the Death of a Missionary 78 

On the Picture of a "Child tired of Play" 81 

A Cliild's First Impression of a Star 83 

On witnessing a Baptism 84 

Reverie at Glenmary 65 

To a City Pigeon 86 

The Belfry Pigeon 87 

Saturday Afternoon 89 

The Sabbath 91 

Dedication Hymn 92 

mSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Dying Alchymist 97 

Parrhasius 102 

The Scholar of Thibet Ben Khorat 108 

The Wife's Appeal 119 

Melanle 128 

Lord Ivon and his Daughter 145 

To Ermengarde 1G.3 

The Confessional 1 65 

Florence Gray 169 

The Pity of the Park Fountain 172 

"Chamber Scene" 173 

T'o a Stolen Ring 174 

To Her who has Hopes of me 176 

The Death of Harrison 178 

"She was not there" 180 

Fail me not Thou 182 

Spirit-whispers 183 

To M , from Abroad 184 

Sunrise Thoughts at the Close of a Ball 185 

To a Face Beloved 186 

Unseen Spirits 188 



-*©■ 



(vii) 



Page 

Better Moments.... 189 

The Annoyer 192 

Andre's Request to Washington 194 

Dawn 195 

Extract from a Poem dehvered at the Departure of the Senior 

Class in Yale College, in 1827 19G 

The Elms of New Haven. .^. 200 

The Thought Angel 210 

Despondency in Spring 213 

To 214 

The Torn Hat 214 

To Laura W , two years of age 216 

On the Death of a Young Girl 218 

May 219 

The Solitary 221 

Sonnet 223 

Acrostic — Sonnet 223 

The Soldier's Widow 224 

Starlight 226 

On the Death of Edward Payson, D. D 227 

January 1, 1828 228 

January 1, 1829 230 

Psyche before the Tribunal of Venus 231 

On Seeing a Beautiful Boy at Play 233 

Hero 235 

Idleness - 237 

The Burial of the Champion of his Class, at Yale College... 240 

Spring 242 

Ou a Picture of a Girl leading her Blind Mother through the 

Wood : 243 

Roaring Brook, (a passage of scenery in Connecticut) 245 

An Apology for avoiding, after long separation, a woman 

once loved 246 

To Helen iu a HuiF 247 



'^ 



( ^'iii ) 

Page. 

City Lyrics 248 

To the Lady in the Chemisette with Black Buttons 250 

The Lady in the White Dress whom I helped into the Om- 
nibus 252 

The White Chip Hat 254 

You know if it was You 255 

Love in a Cottage ^ 257 

The Declaration.. 258 

Poem delivered at Brown University, Sept. G, J 831 259 

Birthday in a Foreign Isle 271 

To a Bride 272 

To a Coquette 274 

The Table of Emerald 274 

The Broken Bracelet 277 

To Julia Grisi 278 

Reveries 279 

Hymn ^3 

The Lady Jane 285 



w 



I 



SACRED POEMS. 



THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 

FuESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve 

Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 

Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain 

Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 

Her thin pale fingers clasp'd within the hand 

Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast. 

Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 

The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips. 

And, as it stirr'd with the awakening wind. 

The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes. 

And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 

She turn'd upon her pillow. He was there — 

The same loved, tireless watcher, and she lookM 

Into his face until her sight grew dim 

With the fast-falling tears; and, with a sigh 

Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name. 

She gently drew his hand upon her lips, 

And kiss'd it as she wept. The old man sunli 

Upon his knees, and in the drapery 

Of the rich curtains buried up his face; 

And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 

Stirr'd with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 

Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear. 



^. 



(2) 

fn the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave 
To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
Ached with its deathly stillness. ***** 

****** jt yjTQ^g night — 

And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, 

Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore, 

Tipp'd with the silver sparkles of the moon. 

The breaking waves play'd low upon the beach 

Their constant music, but the air beside 

Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, 

In its rich cadences unearthly sweet, 

Seem'd like some just-born harmony in the air, 

Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, 

With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 

He stood and taught the people. At his feet 

Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell, 

And staff — for they had waited by the sea 

Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and pray'd 

For his wont teachings as he came to land. 

His hair was parted meekly on his brow, 

And the long curls from off his shoulders fell. 

As he lean'd forward earnestly, and still 

The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — 

And in his looks the same mild majesty — 

And in his mien the sadness mix'd with power — 

Fili'd them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 



® — =.:===.=© 



I 



(3) 

As on his words entrancedly they hung, 
The crowd divided, and among them stood 
Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 
Gather'd in haste about his loins, he came, 
And fix'd his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; 
And silently the people shrunk away. 
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
Alone. A moment lono-er on the face 
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 
And, as the twelve look'd on him, by the light 
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
Steal to his silver beard ; and, drawing nigh 
Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem 
Of his coarse mantle, and with trembling hands 
Press'd it upon his lids, and murmur'd low, 
" Master f my daughter .'" — ****** 

****** rpj^^ same silvery light, 
That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, 
Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, 
As at the door he stood, and welcomed in 
Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 
The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 
Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 
Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor. 
Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms. 
As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 
He trod the winding stair; but ere he toucli'd 
The latchet, from within a whisper came, 



®- 



(4) 

" TrovMe the Master not— for she is deadf^' 
And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 
And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice 
Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 
Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 
The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 
" She is not dead — hut sleepeth.' 



35 



They pass'd in. 
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls. 
The silken curtains slumber'd in their folds — 
Not even a tassel stirring in the air — 
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed, 
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard 
The quickening division of his breath 
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came 
A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face ; 
And, drawing nearer to the bed. he moved 
The silken curtains silently apart. 
And look'd upon the maiden. 

Like a form 
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
The linen vesture folded on her breast. 
And over it her white transparent hands, 
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, 



m 



^ — „_ .^ 



^yi=,:=z:=z=z^r:sz= - - :r ^=--.z====-^m 



(5) 

The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
Ran the light branches of the azure veins; 
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow. 
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
Her polish'd neck, scarce touching it, they hung. 
Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out 
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
^^ Maiden! Arise !^^ — and suddenly a flush 
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
And through her cheek the rallied color ran; 
And the still outline of her graceful form 
Stirr'd in the linen vesture ; and she clasp'd 
The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes 
Full on his beaming countenance — arose ! 



THE LEPER. 



" Room for the leper ! Room !" And, as he came. 
The cry pass'd on — " Room for the leper ! Room !" 
Sunrise was slanting on the city gates 



r=J(®\ 



*^ 



(0) 

Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills 
The early risen poor were coming in, 
Duly and cheerfully to their toil, and up 
Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum 
Of movinoc wheels and multitudes astir, 
And all that in a city murmur swells — 
Unheard but by the watcher's weary ear. 
Aching with night's dull silence, or the sick 
Hailinsf the welcome li2;ht and sounds that chase 
The death-like images of the dark away. 
*' Room for the leper !" And aside they stood — 
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all 
Who met him on his way — and let him pass. 
And onward through the open gate he came, 
A leper with the ashes on his brow, 
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip 
A covering, stepping 'gainfully and slow. 
And with a difficult utterance, like one 
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down. 
Crying, *' Unclean ! Unclean !" 

'Twas now the first 
Of the Judean autumn, and the leaves. 
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path. 
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye 
Of Judah's palmiest noble. He was young, 
And eminently beautiful, and life 
Mantled in eloquent fulness on his lip. 
And sparkled in his glance ; and in his mien 
There was a gracious pride that every eye 



I 

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ii 



■.ZSZU®) 



-® 



Follow 'd with benisons — and this was he I 

With the soft airs of summer there had come 

A torpor on his frame, which not the speed 

Of his best barb, nor music, nor the blast 

Of the bold huntsman's horn, nor aught that stirs 

The spirit to its bent, might drive away. 

The blood beat not as wont within his veins ; 

Dimness crept o'er his eye; a drowsy sloth 

Fetter'd his limbs like palsy, and his mien. 

With all its loftiness, seem'd struck witl) eld. 

Even his voice was changed — a lano-uid moan 

Taking the place of the clear silver key ; 

And brain and sense grew faint, as if the light 

And very air were steep'd in sluggishness. 

He strove with it awhile, as manhood will, 

Ever too proud for weakness, till the rein 

Slacken'd within his grasp, and in its poise 

The arrowy jereed like an aspen shook. 

Day after day, he lay as if in sleep. 

His skin grew dry and bloodless, and white scales, 

Circled with livid purple, cover'd him. 

And then his nails grew black, and fell away 

From the dull flesh about them, and the hues 

Deepen'd beneath the hard unmoisten'd scales. 

And from their edges grew the rank white hair, 

— And Helen was a leper ! 

Day was breaking. 
When at the altar of the temple stood 
The holy priest of God. The incense lamp 






(8) 

Burn'd with a struggling light, and a low chant 
Swell'd through the hollow arches of the roof 
Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, 
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. 
The echoes of the melancholy strain 
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up. 
Struggling with weakness, and bow'd down his head 
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off 
His costly raiment for the leper's garb ; 
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip 
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, 
Waiting to hear his doom : — 

Depart ! depart, O chiin 
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God ! 
For He has smote thee with his chastening rod ; 

And to the desert-wild. 
From all thou lov'st, away thy feet must flee, 
That from thy plague His people may be free. 

Depart! and come not near 
The busy mart, the crowded city, more ; 
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; 

And stay thou not to hear 
Voices that call thee in the way ; and ily 
From all who in the wilderness pass by. 

Wet not thy burning lip 
In streams that to a human dwelling glide ; 
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide ; 



C®) 



(9) 

Nor kneel thee down to dip 
The water where the pilgrim bends to drink, 
By desert well or river's grassy brink ; 

And pass thou not between 
The weary traveller and the cooling breeze ; 
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees 

Where human tracks are seen ; 
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain, 
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain. 

And now depart ! and when 
Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim. 
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him 

Who, from the tribes of men. 
Selected thee to feel His chastening rod. 
Depart ! O leper ! and forget not God ! 

And he went forth — alone ! not one of all 
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name 
Was woven in the fibres of the heart 
Breaking within him now, to come and speak 
Comfort unto him. Yea — he went his way. 
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone — to die ! 
For God had cursed the leper ! 

It was noon, 
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool 
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, 
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touch 'd 



(10) 

The loathsome water to his fever'd lips, 
Praying tliat he might be so blest — to die ! 
Footsteps approach'd, and, with no strength to flee, 
He drew the covering closer on his lip. 
Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds 
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, 
He fell upon the earth till they should pass. 
I Nearer the Stranger came, and bending o'er 

The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name — 
" Helon !" The voice was like the master-tone 
Of a rich instrument — most strangely sweet ; 
And the dull pulses of disease awoke, 
And for a moment beat beneath the hot 
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. 
" Helon ! arise !" and he forgot his curse, 
And rose and stood before Him. 

Love and awe 
Mingled in the regard of Helen's eye 
As he beheld the Stranger. He was not 
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow 
The symbol of a princely lineage wore ; 
No followers at His back, nor in His hand 
Buckler, or sword, or spear, — yet in his mien 
Command sat throned serene, and if He smiled, 
A kingly condescension graced His lips. 
The lion would have crouch'd to in his lair. 
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn ; 
His stature modell'd with a perfect grace j 
His countenfince the impress of a God, . 



1 



(11) 

Touch'd with the open innocence of a child ; 
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky- 
In the serenest noon ; His hair unshorn 
Fell to His shoulders ; and His curling beard 
The fulness of perfected manhood bore. 
He look'd on Flelon earnestly awhile, 
As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down, 
He took a little water in His hand 
And laved the sufferer's brow, and said, " Be clean !" 
And lo ! the scales fell from him, and his blood 
Coursed with delicious coolness throui^h his veins. 
And his dry palms grew moist, and lips ? 
The dewy softness of an infant's stole. 
His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down 
Prostrate at Jesus' feet and worshipp'd him. 



DAVID S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD. 

'TwAS daybreak, and the fingers of the dawn 

Drew the night's curtain, and touch'd silently 

The eyelids of the king. And David woke, 

And robed himself, and pray'd. The inmates, now. 

Of the vast palace were astir, and feet 

Glided along the tesselated floors 

With a pervading murmur, and the fount 

Whose music had been all the night unheard, 

Play'd as if light had made it audible ; 



(12) 

And each one, waking, bless'd it unaware. 

The fran-rant strife of sunshine with the morn 
Sweeten'd the air to ecstasy ! and now 
The king's wont was to lie upon his couch 
Beneath the sky-roof of the inner court, 
And, shut in from the world, but not from heaven. 
Play with his loved son by the fountain's lip ; 
For, v/ith idolatry confess'd alone 
To the rapt wires of his reproofless harp. 
He loved the child of Bathsheba. And when 
The golden selvedo;e of his robe was heard 
Sweeping the marble pavement, from within 
Broke forth a child's laugh suddenly, and words — 
Articulate, perhaps, to his heart only — 
Pleading to come to him. They brought the boy — 
An infant cherub, leaping as if used 
To hover with that motion upon wings. 
And marvellously beautiful ! His brow 
Had the inspired up-lift of the king's. 
And kincflv was his infantine re£rard ; 
But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould 
Of Bathsheba's — the hue and type of love, 
Rosy and passionate — and oh, the moist 
Unfathomable blue of his large eyes 
Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, 
And drew the heart of the beholder in ! — - 
And this was like his mother. 

David's lips 
Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile 



&" 



(13) 

He closed the lids upon his moisten'd eyes, 
And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy 
Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid 
That but the lifting of his lids might jar 
The heart-cup's over-fulness. Unobserved, 
A servant of the outer court had knelt 
Waiting before him ; and a cloud the while 
Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven ; 
And, ^s the chill of the withdrawing sun 
Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes 
And frown'd upon the servant — for that hour 
Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child, 
And none might seek him. And the king arose, 
And with a troubled countenance look'd up 
To the fast-gathering darkness ; and, behold. 
The servant bow'd himself to earth, and said, 
" Nathan the prophet cometh from the Lord !" 
And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp 
Which wrung a murmur from the frighted child, 
He drew him to his breast, and cover'd him 
With the long foldings of his robe, and said, 
" I will come forth. Go now !" And lingeringly 
With kisses on the fair uplifted brow. 
And mingled words of tenderness and prayer 
Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips. 
He gave to them the child, and bow'd his head 
Upon his breast with agony. And so, 
To hear the errand of the man of God, 
He fearfully went forth. 



C®)y=:z 



I 

I i 



(14) 

It was the morning of the seventh clay. 
A hush was in the palace, for all eyes 
Had woke before the morn ; and they who drew 
The curtains to let in the welcome light. 
Moved in their chambers with unslipper'd feet, 
And listen'd breathlessly. And still no stir ! 
The servants who kept watch without the door 
Sat motionless ; the purple casement-shades 
From the low windows had been roll'd aw^y, 
To give the child air; and the flickering light 
That, all the night, within the spacious court, 
Had drawn the watcher's eyes to one spot only. 
Paled with the sunrise and fled in. 

And hush'd 
With more than stillness was the room where lay 
The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks 
Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr'd — 
So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, 
She watch'd his breathless slumber. The low moan 
That from his lips all night broke fitfully. 
Had silenced with the daybreak ; and a smile — 
Or something that would fain have been a smile — 
Play'd in his parted moulh ; and though his lids 
Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes. 
His senses seem'd all peacefully asleep. 
And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn — 
That brought back hope to her ! But when the king 
Heard not the voice of the com])laining child. 
Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir — 



-m 



(15) 

But morning there — so welcomeless and still — 

He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights 

Had wasted ; and the mornings come ; and days 

Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, 

Since the child sicken'd ; and, without the door, 

Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain — 

Listening only to the moans that brought 

Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice 

Of Bathsheba, whose pity and caress, 

In loving utterance all broke with tears, 

Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there. 

And fiU'd his- prayer with agony. Oh God! 

To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far ! 

How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on! 

And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, 

Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly 

The comforting of friends falls on the ear — 

The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee ! 

But suddenly the watchers at the door 
Rose up, and they who minister'd within 
Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly 
Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba 
Held the unmoving child upon her knees. 
The curtains were let down, and all came forth, 
And, gathering with fearful looks apart, 
Whisper'd together. 

And the king arose 
And gazed on them a moment, and with voice 



( 16 ) 

Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, 

"Is the child dead?" They answer'd, "He is dead!" 

But when they look'd to see him fall again 

Upon his face, and rend himself and weep — 

For, while the child was sick, his agony 

Would bear no comforters, and they had thought 

His heartstrings with the tidings must give way — 

Behold ! his face grew calm, and, with his robe 

Gather'd together like his kingly wont, 

He silently went in. 

And David came. 
Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house 
Of God went up to pray. And he return'd, 
And they set bread before him, and he ate — 
And when they marvell'd, he said, " Wherefore mourn ? 
The child is dead, and I shall go to him — 
But he will not return to me.'' 



THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM. 

Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds 

Are putting on their gold and violet. 

To look tlie meeter for the sun's bright coming. 

Sleep is upon the waters and the wind ; 

And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf 

To lier majestic master, sleeps. As yet 



Or- 



(17) 

There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, 

And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms 

Of crimson roses in a holy rest. 

How hallow'd is the hour of morning ! meet — 

Ay, beautifully meet — for the pure prayer. 

The patriarch standeth at his tented door, 

With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont 

To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient ; 

And at that hour the awful majesty 

Of man who talketh often with his God, 

Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow 

As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth 

To be forgetful of his vigorous frame. 

And boweth to his staff as at the hour 

Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun — 

He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, 

Coming in golden raiment, as if all 

Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. 

Ah, he is waiting till it herald in 

The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! 

Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands 
Watching the steps of Abraham and her child 
Along the dewy sides of the far hills. 
And praying that her sunny boy faint not. 
Would she have watch'd their path so silently. 
If she had known that he was going up, 
E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain 
As a white lamb for sacrifice ? They trod 
Together onward, patriarch and child — 



^ 



(18) 

The bright sun throwins; back the old man's shade 

In straight and fair proportions, as of one 

Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up. 

Tall in his vigorous strength ; and, like a tree 

Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. 

His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, 

And left his brow uncover'd ; and his face, 

Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief 

Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth 

Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. 

But the young boy — he of the laughing eye 

And ruby lip — the pride of life was on him. 

He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, 

And the aroma of the spicy trees, 

And all that giveth the delicious East 

Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light 

Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts 

With love and beauty. Every thing he met, 

Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing 

Of bird or insect, or the palest dye 

Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path ; 

And joyously broke forth his tiny shout. 

As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung 

Away to some green spot or clustering vine, 

To pluck his infant trophies./ Every tree 

And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place ; 

And he would crouch till the old man came by. 

Then bound before him with his childish laugh. 

Stealing a look behind him playfully. 

To see if he had made his father smile. 



& 



(19) 

The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up 

From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat 

Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, 

And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. 

Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step. 

Firm and unfaltering ^ turning not aside 

To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips 

In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells. 

Whose gush hath so much music. ] Weariness 

Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot 

To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, 

And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings 

As in the early morning; but he kept 

Close by his father's side, and bent his head 

Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, 

Lifting it not, save now and then to steal 

A look up to the face whose sternness awed 

His childishness to silence. 

It was noon — 
And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself. 
And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. 
He could not look upon his son, and pray; 
But, with his hand upon the clustering curls 
Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God 
Would nerve him for that hour. * * * * 

***** J.Jg pQgg yp^ .J^^(} J^{jJ 

The wood upon the altar. All was done. 
He stood a moment — and a deep, quick flush 



(20) 

Pass'd o'er his countenance ; and then he nerved 
His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke — 
"Isaac! my only son!" — The boy look'd up : 
" Where is the lamb, my father ?" — Oh the tones. 
The sweet, familiar voice of a loved child ! — 
What would its music seem at such an hour ! — 
It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held 
His loved, his beautiful, his only son, 
And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God — 
And lo ! God's angel stay'd him — and he fell 
Upon his face, and wept. 



THE SHUNAMMITE. 

It was a sultry day of summer-time. 
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain 
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves 
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills 
Stood still, and the divided flock were all 
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots. 
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd 



m 



(21) 

As if the air had fainted, and the pulse 

Of nature had run down, and ceased to beat. 

"Haste thee, my child!" the Syrian mother said, 

" Thy father is athirst" — and, from the depths 

Of the cool well under the leaning tree, 

She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts 

Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart, 

She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way 

Committed him. And he went lightly on, 

With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool 

Stone vessel, and his little naked feet 

Lifted with watchful care ; and o'er the hills, 

And through the light green hollows where the lambs 

Go for the tender grass, he kept his way, 

Wiling its distance with his simple thoughts, 

Till, in the wilderness of sheaves, with brows 

Throbbing with heat, he set his burden down. 

Childhood is restless ever, and the boy 
Stay'd not within the shadow of the tree, 
But with a joyous industry went forth 
Into the reaper's places, and bound up 
His viny sheaves, and plaited cunningly 
The pliant withs out of the shining straw- 
Cheering their labor on, till they forgot 
The heat and weariness of their stooping toil 
In the beguiling of his playful mirth. 
Presently he was silent, and his eye 
Closed as with dizzy pain, and with his hand 



(22) 

Press'd hard upon his forehead, and his breast 
Heaving with the suppression of a cry, 
He utter'd a faint murmur, and fell back 
Upon the loosen'd sheaf, insensible. 

They bore him to his mother, and he lay 
Upon her knees till noon — and then he died ! 
She had watch'd every breath, and kept her hand 
Soft on his forehead, and gazed in upon 
The dreamy languor of his listless eye. 
And she had laid back all his sunny curls 
And kiss'd his delicate lip, and lifted him 
Into her bosom, till her heart grew strong — 
His beauty was so unlike death ! She lean'd 
Over him now, that she might catch the low 
Sweet music of his breath, that she had learn'd 
To love when he was slumbering at her side 
In his unconscious infancy — 

u _So still ! 
'Tis a soft sleep ! How beautiful he lies, 
With his fair forehead, and the losy veins 
Playing so freshly in his sunny cheek ! 
How could they say that he would die ! Oh God ! 
I could not lose him ! I have treasured all 
His childhood in my heart, and even now. 
As he has slept, my memory has been there. 
Counting like treasures all his winning ways — 
His unforgotten sweetness : — 

" —Yet so still !— 
Flow like this breathless slumber is to death ! 



(23) 

I could believe that in that bosom now 

There were no pulse — it beats so languidly ! 

I cannot see it stir; but his red lip! 

Death would not be so very beautiful ! 

And that half smile — would death have left that there ? 

— And should I not have felt that he would die ? 

And have I not wept over him ? — and pray'd 

Morning and night for him ? and could he die ? 

— No — God will keep him ! He will be my pride 

Many long years to come, and his fair hair 

Will darken like his father's, and his eye 

Be of a deeper blue when he is grown ; 

And he will be so tall, and I shall look 

With such a pride upon him ! — He to die !" 

And the fond mother lifted his soft curls, 

And smiled, as if 'tv/ere mockery to think 

That such fair things could perish. — 

— Suddenly 
Her hand shrunk from him, and the color fled 
From her fix'd lip, and her supporting knees 
Were shook beneath her child. Her hand had touch'd 
His forehead, as she dallied with his hair — 
And it was cold — like clay ! Slow, very slow, 
Came the missjivinf? that her child was dead. 
She sat a moment, and her eyes were closed 
In a dumb prayer for strength, and then she took 
His little hand and press'd it earnestly — 
And put her lip to his — and look'd again 
Fearfully on him — and, then bending low, 
She whisoer'd in his ear, " My son ! — my son !" 



M 



( 24 ) 

And as the echo died, and not a sound 

Broke on the stilhiess, and he lay there still — 

Motionless on her knee — the truth would come ! 

And with a sharp, quick cry, as if her heart 

Were crush'd, she lifted him and held him close 

Into her bosom — with a mother's thought — 

As if death had no power to touch him there ! 
********* 

The man of God came forth, and led the child 
Unto his mother, and went on his way. 
And he was there — her beautiful — her own — 
Livins: and smilin"; on her — with his arms 
Folded about her neck, and his warm breath 
Breathing upon her lips, and in her ear 
The music of his gentle voice once more ! 



JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, 
To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud 
Floating around a statue, and the wind, 
Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape 



(®i 



(25) 

Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd 

Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised 

Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, 

Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. 

Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft 

Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck. 

Just where the cheek was meltino- to its curve 

With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, 

Was shaded, as if light had fallen off. 

Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling 

Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the white rose 

Scarce moved upon her bosom^ as it swell'd, 

Like nothing but a lovely wave of light. 

To meet the arching of her queenly neck. 

Her countenance was radiant with love. 

She look'd like one to die for it — a being 

Whose whole existence was the pouring out 

Of rich and deep affections. 

Onward came 
The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes 
Rang sharply on the ear at intervals ; 
And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts 
Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, 
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. 
They came, as earthly conquerors always come, 
With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. 
The stately horse treads proudly — he hath trod 
The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels 
Of warriors roll magnificently on — 



^^^^ 



(26) 

Tlieir weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there — 
Majestic, lordly man — with his sublime 
And elevated brow, and godlike frame ; 
Lifting his crest in triumph — for his heel 
Hath trod the dying like a wine- press down ! 

The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on 

Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, 

And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise 

Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, 

But free as India's leopard ; and his mail, 

Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, 

Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. 

His crest was Judah's kingliest ; and the look 

Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, 

Might quell the lion. He led on ; but thoughts 

Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins 

Grew visible upon his swarthy brow. 

And his proud lip was press'd as. if with pain. 

He trod less firmly ; and his restless eye 

Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill 

He dared not meet, w^ere there. His home was near ; 

And men were thronging, with that strange delight 

They have in human passions, to observe 

The struggle of his feelings with his pride. 

He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs 

Before his door v^ere motionless. The leaves 

Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines 

Which half conceal'd his thr^ohold, met his eye, 

Unchanged and beautiful ; and one by one. 



i®)~ 



(®) 



( -i-! ) 

The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, 

And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd 

Of silent and familiar things, stole up, 

Like the recover'd passages of dreams. 

He strode on rapidly. A moment more, 

And he had reach'd his home ; when lo ! there sprang 

One with a bounding footstep, and a brow 

Of light, to meet him. Oh how beautiful ! — 

Her proud eye flashing like a sun-lit gem — 

And her luxuriant hair! — 'twas like the sweep 

Of a dark wing in visions. He stood still, 

As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw 

Her arms about his neck — he heeded not. 

She call'd him " Father" — but he answer'd not. 

She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth ? 

There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. 

Had sickness seized him ? She unclasp'd his helm, 

And laid her white hand gently on his brow. 

And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. 

The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, 

And spoke the name af God, in agony. 

She knew that he was stricken, then; and rush'd 

Again into his arms ; and, with a flood 

Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayei 

That he would breathe his agony in words. 

He told her — and a momentary flush 

Shot o'er her countenance ; and then the soul 

Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd ; and she stood 

Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well — 

And she would die. * * * * * 



i 



(28) 

The sun had well nigh set. 
The fire was on the altar; and the priest 
Of the High God was there. A pallid man 
Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, 
As if he would have pray'd, but had no words — 
And she who was to die, the calmest one 
In Israel at that hour, stood up alone. 
And waited for the sun to set. Her face 
Was pale, but very beautiful — her lip 
Had a more delicate outline, and the tint 
Was deeper ; but her countenance was like 
The majesty of angels. 

The sun set — 
And she was dead — but not by violence. 



ABSALOM. 



The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low 
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 



(®) 



■«5 



(29) 

The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems, 
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse, 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. 
And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest. 
How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
By its light heed of human suffering, 
That it was fashion'd for a happier world.! 

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled 
From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood, 
With his faint people, for a little rest 
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 
Of mom was stirring, and he bared his brow 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gather'd round him on the fresh green bank, 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there. 
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
And the poor common words of courtesy 
Are such an empty mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those 
Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 



( 3'> ) 

For his cstranijed, mis2;uided Absalom — 

The proud, bright being, who had burst away 

In all his princely beauty, to defy 

The heart that cherish'd hinn — for him he pour'd, 

In agony that would not be controll'd, 

Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 

* ^^ m^ m^ ^M *^ fc^* ^* ^^ 

^^ ^^ ^* *^ ^^ *^ *^ ^^ 

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straighten 'd for the grave ; and, as the folds 
Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 
His helm was at his feet : his banner, soil'd 
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
Reversed, beside him : and the jewell'd hilt, 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. 
The soldiers of the king ti'od to and fro. 
Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief. 
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier. 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. 
As if he fear'd the slumberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade 
As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form 
Of David enter'd, and he gave command, 



(®) 



C®) 



( '^1 ) 

In a low tone, to his few followers, 
And left him with his dead. The kinir stood still 
Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of wo : 

" Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! 

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye. 

And leave his stillness in this clusterins hair ! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee. 

And hear thy sweet ' my father V from these dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young ; 

And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; — 

But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 



f^:r: 



(32) 

How will its love for thee, as 1 depart, 

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 
It were so sweel, amid death's gathering gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up. 
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 

And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee. 

May God have call'd thee, like a M^anderer, home, 
My lost boy, Absalom !" 

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself 
A moment on his child : then, giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer : 
And, as if strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently — and left him there — 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



CHRIST'S ENTRANCE INTO JERUSALEM. 

He sat upon the " ass's foal" and rode 
On to Jerusalem. Beside him walk'd, 
Closely and silently, the faithful twelve, 



I 



( 33 ) 

And on before him went a multitude 
Shouting Hosannas, and with eager hands 
Strewing their garments thickly in his way. 
Th' unbroken foal beneath him gently stepp'd, 
Tame as its patient dam ; and as the song 
Of " welcome to the Son of David" burst 
Forth from a thousand children, and the leaves 
Of the waved branches touch'd its silken ears, 
It turn'd its wild eye for a moment back, 
And then, subdued by an invisible hand, 
Meekly trode onward with its slender feet. 

The dew's last sparkle from the grass had gone 
As he rode up Mount Olivet. The woods 
Threw their cool shadows freshly to the west. 
And the light foal, with quick and toiling step, 
And head bent low, kept its unslacken'd way 
Till its soft mane was lifted by the wind 
Sent o'er the mount from Jordan. As he reach'd 
The summit's breezy pitch, the Saviour raised 
His calm blue eye — there stood Jerusalem ! 
Eagerly he bent forward, and beneath 
His mantle's passive folds, a bolder line 
Than the wont slightness of his perfect limbs 
Betray'd the swelling fulness of his heart. 
There stood Jerusalem ! How fair she look'd — 
The silver sun on all her palaces, 
And her fair daughters 'mid the golden spires 
Tendino; their terrace flowers, and Kedron's stream 
Lacing the meadows with its silver band, 



m 



(34) 

And wreathing its mist-mantle on the sky 

With the morn's exhalations. There she stood — 

Jerusalem — the city of his love, 

Chosen from all the earth ; Jerusalem — 

That knew him not — and had rejected him ; 

Jerusalem — for whom he came to die ! 

The shouts redoubled from a thousand lips 

At the fair sight ; the children leap'd and sang 

Louder Hosannas ; the clear air was fill'd 

With odor from the trampled olive-leaves — 

But " Jesus wept." The loved disciple saw 

His Master's tears, and closer to his side 

He came with yearning looks, and on his neck 

The Saviour leant with heavenly tenderness, 

And mourn'd — " How oft, Jerusalem ! would I 

Have gather'd you, as gathereth a hen 

Her brood beneath her wings — but ye would not !" 

He thought not of the death that he should die — 

He thought not of the thorns he knew must pierce 

His forehead — of the buffet on the cheek — 

The scourge, the mocking homage, the foul scorn ! — 

Gethsemane stood out beneath his eye 

Clear in the morning sun, and there, he knew, 

While they who " could not watch with him one hour" 

Were sleeping, he should sweat great drops of blood, 

Praying the " cup might pass." And Golgotha 

Stood bare and desert by the city wall, 

And in its midst, to his prophetic eye. 

Rose the roun;h cross, and its keen aijonies 



(35) 

Were number'd all — the nails were in his feet — 

Th' insulting sponge was pressing on his lips — 

The blood and water gushing from his side — 

The dizzy faintness swimming in his brain — 

And, while his own disciples fled in fear, 

A world's death-agonies all mix'd in his ! 

Ay ! — he forgot all this. He only saw 

Jerusalem, — the chos'n — the loved — the lost ! 

He only felt that for her sake his life 

Was vainly giv'n, and, in his pitying love. 

The sufferings that would clothe tlie Heavens in black. 

Were quite forgotten. Was there ever love, 

In earth or heaven, equal unto this ? 



rr. 



BAPTISM OF CHRIST. 

It was a green spot in the wilderness, 
Touch'd by the river Jordan. The dark pine 
Never had dropp'd its tassels on the moss 
Tufting the leaning bank, nor on the grass 
Of the broad circle stretching evenly 
To the straight larches, had a heavier foot 
Than the wild heron's trodden. Softly in 
Through a long aisle of willows, dim and cool, 
Stole the clear waters with their muffled feet, 
And, hushing as they spread into the light. 
Circled the edges of the pebbled tank 



(36) 

Slowly, then rippled through the woods away. 
Hither had come th' Apostle of the wild, 
Winding the river's course. 'Twas near the flush 
Of eve, and, with a multitude around. 
Who from the cities had come out to hear, 
He stood breast-high amid the running stream, 
Baptizing as the Spirit gave him power. 
His simple raiment was of camel's hair, 
A leathern girdle close about his loins. 
His beard unshorn, and for his daily meat 
The locust and wild honey of the wood — 
But like the face of Moses on the mount 
Shone his rapt countenance, and in his eye 
Burn'd the mild fire of love — and as he spoke 
The ear lean'd to him, and persuasion swift 
To the chain'd spirit of the listener stole. 

Silent upon the green and sloping bank 
The people sat, and while the leaves were shook 
With the birds dropping early to their nests, 
And the gray eve came on, within their hearts 
They mused if he were Christ. The rippling stream 
Still turn'd its silver courses from his breast 
As he divined their thought. " I but baptize," 
He said, " with water ; but there cometh One, 
The latchet of whose shoes I may not dare 
E'en to unloose. He will baptize with fire 
And with the Holy Ghost." And lo ! while yet 
The words were on his lips, he raised his eyes. 
And on the bank stood Jesus. He had laid 



— K®) 



(37) 

His raiment off, and with his loins alone 

Girt with a mantle, and his perfect limbs. 

In their angelic slightness, meek and bare. 

He waited to go in. But John forbade, 

And hurried to his feet and stay'd him there, 

And said, •' Nay, Master ! I have need of thine, 

Not thou of mine /" And Jesus, with a smile 

Of heavenly sadness, met his earnest looks, 

And answer'd, " Suffer it to be so now ; 

For thus it doth become me to fulfil 

All righteousness." And, leaning to the stream, 

He took around him the Apostle's arm, 

And drew him gently to the midst. The wood 

Was thick with the dim twilight as they came 

Up from the water. With his clasped hands 

Laid on his breast, th' Apostle silently 

Follow'd his Master's steps — when lo! a light, 

Bright as the tenfold glory of the sun, 

Yet lambent as the softly burning stars, 

Envelop'd them, and from the heavens away 

Parted the dim blue ether like a veil ; 

And as a voice, fearful exceedingly. 

Broke from the midst, " This is my much loved Son 

In wiioisi I AM WELL PLEASED," a SHOW- white dove, 

Floating upon its wings, descended through ; 

And shedding a swift music fi'om its plumes, 

Circled, and flutter'd to the Saviour's breast. 



(38) 



SCENE IN GETHSEMANE. 



The moon was shining yet. The Orient's brow, 

Set with the morning-star, was not yet dim ; 

And the deep silence which subdues the breath 

Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world 

As sleep upon the pulses of a child. 

'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane, 

With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved 

In visible stillness ; and as Jesus' voice, 

With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear 

Of his disciples, it vibrated on 

Like the first whisper in a silent world. 

They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd 

The Saviour's heart, and when the kindnesses 

Of his deep love were pour'd, he felt the need 

Of near communion, for his gift of strength 

Was wasted by the spirit's weariness. 

He left them there, and went a little on. 

And in the depth of that hush'd silentness, 

Alone with God, he fell upon his face. 

And as his heart was broken with the rush 

Of his surpassing agony, and death. 

Wrung to him from a dying universe. 

Was mightier than the Son of man could bear, 

He gave his sorrows way — and in the deep 

Prostration of his soul, breathed out the prayer, 



( 39 ) 

*' Father, if it be possible with thee, 

Let this cup pass from me." Oh, how a word, 

Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks, 

Stilleth the press of human agony ! 

The Saviour felt its quiet in his soul ; 

And though his strength was weakness, and the l:^h 

Which led him on till now was sorely dim, 

He breathed a new submission — " Not my will, 

But thine be done, oh Father !" As he spoke. 

Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole 

Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky 

As if the stars were swept like instruments. 

No cloud was visible, but radiant wings 

Were coming with a silvery rush to earth. 

And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one, 

With an illumined forehead, and the light 

Whose fountain is the mystery of God, 

Encalm'd within his eye, bow'd down to hini. 

And nerved him with a ministry of strength. 

It was enough — and with his godlike brow 

Re-written of his Father's messenger. 

With meekness, whose divinity is more 

Than power and glory, he return'd again 

To his disciples, and awaked their sleep. 

For " he that should betray him was at hand." 



M 



(40) 



THE WIDOW OF NAIN. 

The Roman sentinel stood helm'd and tall 

Beside the jj^ate of Nain. The busy tread 

Of comers to tlie city mart was done, 

For it was ahnost noon, and a dead heat 

Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, 

And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, 

And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. 

Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept 

His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream 

Was broken by tlie solitary foot 

Of some poor mendicant, he raised liis head 

To curse him for a tributary Jew, 

And slumberously dozed on. 

'Twas nov/ hhjh noon. 
Tiie dull, low murmur of a funeral 
Went through tlie city — the sad sound of feet 
Unmix'd with voices — and the sentinel 
Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly 
Up the wide streets along whose paved way 
The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, 
Bearing a body heavily on its bier. 
And by the crowd that in the burning sun, 
Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one 
Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate 
Swun<-' on its hinws, and the Roman bent ■■ 



II 



(®) 



I 

1 



(41) 

His spear-point downwards as the bearers pass'd, 
Bending beneath their burden. There was one — 
Only one mourner. Close behind the bier, 
Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, 
Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps 
Falter'd with wealcness, and a broken moan 
Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively 
As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd 
Follow'd apart, but no one spoke to her. 
She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone — 
A widow with one son. He was her all — 
The only tie she had in the wide world — 
And he v/as dead. They could not comfort her. 

Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate 
The funeral came forth. His lips were pale 
With the noon's sultry heat. The beaded sweat 
Stood thickly on his brow, and on the worn 
And simple latchets of bis sandals lay, 
Thick, the white dust of travel. He had come 
Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not 
To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool, 
Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs, 
Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side 
To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze. 
Genesareth stood cool upon tbe East, 
Fast by the Sea of Galilee, and there 
The weary traveller might bide till eve ; 
And on the alders of Bethulia's plains 
The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild : 



( 42 ) 

Yet turn'd he not aside, but, gazing on, 
From every swelling mount he saw afar, 
Amid the hills, the humble spires of Nain, 
The place of his next errand ; and the path 
Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away 
Upon the East lay pleasant Galilee. 

Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd 

Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near 

The place of burial, and, with straining hands. 

Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall. 

And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's. 

And an inquiring wildness flashing through 

The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes. 

She came where Jesus stood beside tlie way. 

He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved. 

" Weep not !" he said ; and as they stay'd the bier, 

And at his bidding laid it at his feet. 

He gently drew the pall from out her grasp, 

And laid it back in silence from the dead. 

With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near, 

And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space 

He stood and pray'd. Then, taking the cold hand. 

He said, " Arise !" And instantly the breast 

Fleaved in its cerements, and a sudden flush 

Ran through the lines of the divided lips. 

And with a murmur of his mother's name, 

He trembled and sat upright in his shroud. 

And, while the mourner hung upon his neck, 

Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain. 



(^ 



^ 



(®) 



(43) 



HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 

The morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds 
With a strange beauty. Earth received again 
Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves, 
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, 
And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 

All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light 
And loveliness, and fragrant air were sad 
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
Was pouring odors from its spicy pores, 
And the young birds wei'e singing as if life 
Were a new thing to them ; but music came 
Upon her ear like discord, and she felt 
That pang of the unreasonable heart, 
That, bleeding amid things it loved so well. 
Would have some sign of sadness as they pass. 
She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were press'd 
Till the blood started ; and the wandering veins 
Of her transparent forehead were swcll'd out, 



(®) 



(44) 

As rf her pride would burst them. Her dark eye 
Was clear and tearless, and the light of heaven, 
Wliich made its language legible, shot back, 
From her long lashes, as it had been flame. 
Her noble boy stood by her, with his hand 
Clasp'd in her own, and his round, delicate feet, 
Scarce train'd to balance on the tented floor, 
Sandall'd for journeying. He had look'd up 
Into his mother's face until he caught 
The spirit there, and his young heart was swelling 
Beneath iiis dimpled bosom, and his form 
Straighten'd up proudly in his tiny wrath. 
As if his light proportions would have swell'd. 
Had they but match'd his spirit, to the man. 

Why bends the patriarch as he cometh now 
Upon his staff so wearily ? His beard 
Is low upon his breast, and his high brow 
So written with the converse of his God, 
Beareth the swollen vein of agony. 
His lip is quivering, and his wonted step 
Of vio;or is not there ; and thouijjh the morn 
Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes 
Its freshness as it were a pestilence. 

He gave to her the water and the bread. 
But spoke no word, and trusted not himself 
To look upon her face, but laid his hand 
In silent blessing on the fair-hair'd boy, 
And left her to her lot of loneliness. 



■-m 



Siiould Hagar weep ? May slighted woman turn, 
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
Bend lightly to her leaning trust again ? 
O no ! by all her loveliness — by all 
That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! 
Make her a slave ; steal from her rosy cheek 
By needless jealousies ; let tlie last star 
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all 
That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give 
One evidence of love, and earth has not 
An emblem of devotedness like hers. 
But oh ! estrann^e her once — it boots not how — 
By wrong or silence — any thing that tells 
A change has come upon your tenderness, — 
And there is not a feeling out of heaven 
Her pride o'ermastereth not. 

She went her way with a strong step and slow — 
Her press'd lip arcli'd, and her clear eye undimm'd, 
As if it were a diamond, and her form , 

Borne proudly uy*, as if her heart breathed througli. 
Her child kept on in silence, though she press'd 
His hand till it was pain'd ; for he had read, 
The dark look of his mother, and the seed 
Of a stern nation had been breathed upon. 

The morning pass'd, and Asia's sun rode uj) 
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
The cattle of the hills were in tlie shade, 






rs^ - —-{m 



(46) 

And the bright plumage o£ the Orient lay 

On beating bosoms in her spicy trees. 

It was an hour of rest ! but Hagar found 

No shelter in the wilderness, and on 

She kept her weary way, until the boy 

Hung down his head, and open'd his parch'd lips 

For water; but she could not give it him. 

She laid him down beneath the sultry sky, — 

For it was better than the close, hot breath 

Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 

But he was sore athirst, and his blue eyes 

Were dim and blood-shot, and he could not know 

Why God denied him water in llie wild. 

She sat a little longer, and he grew 

Ghastly and faint, as if he would liave died. 

It was too much for her. She lifted him. 

And bore him further on, and laid his head 

Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 

And, shrouding up her face, she went away. 

And sat to watch, where he could see her not. 

Till he should die ; and, watching him, she mourn'd :- 

" God stay thee in thine agony, my boy ! 
I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 

Upon thy brow to look. 
And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 

And could I see thee die ? 

" I did not dream of this when thou wast straying, 
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers; 



S^: 



c® 



( 4T ) 

Or wiling the soft hours, 
By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 

So beautiful and deep. 

" Oh no ! and when I watch'd by thee the while, 
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream. 

And thousjht of the dark streai.i 
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
How pray'd I that my father's land might be 

An heritage for thee ! 

" And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee ! 
And thy white, delicate limbs the earth will press ; 

And oh ! my last caress 
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. 
How can 1 leave my boy, so pillow'd there 

Upon his clustering hair !" 

She stood beside the well her God had given 
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
The forehead of her child until he laugh'd 
In his reviving happiness, and lisp'd 
His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
Of the cool plashing of his mother's Imnd. 



W 



@J^=== — -===^==® 



(48) 



RIZPAH WITH HEU SONS, 
(^The day before they were hanged on Gihcah.) 

" Bread for my mother !" said the voice of one 
Darkening the door of Rizpah. She look'd up — 
And lo ! the princely countenance and mien 
Of dark-browM Armoni. The eye of Saul — 
Tlie very voice and presence of the king — 
Limb, port, and majesty,-r-\vere present there, 
Mock'd like an apparition in her son. 
Yet, as he stoop'd his forehead to her hand 
With a kind smile, a something of his mother 
Unbent the haughty arching of his lip, 
And, through the darkness of the widow's heart 
Trembled a nerve of tenderness that shook 
Her thought of pride all suddenly to tears. ' 

" Whence comest thou ?" said Rizpah. 

" From the house 
Of David. In his gate there stood a soldier — 
This in his hand. I pluck'd it, and I said, 
' A klug^s son lakes it for his hungri/ niolher V 
God stay the famine !" 

****** ^g ]jg spoke, a step. 
Light as an antelope's, the threshold press'd. 
And like a beam of light into the room 
Enter'd Mephibosheth. What bird of heaven 
Or creature of the wild — what flower of earth — 



(®) 



--((®) 



(49) 

Was like this fairest of the sons of Saul ! 
The violet's cup was harsh to his blue eye. 
Less agile was the fierce barb's fiery step. 
His voice drew hearts to him. His smile was like 
Tlie incarnation of some blessed dream — 
lis joyousness so sunn'd the gazer's eye ! 
Fair were his locks. His snowy teeth divided 
A bow of Love, drawn with a scarlet thread. 
His cheek was like the moist heart of the rose ; 
And, but for nostrils of that breathing fire 
That turns the lion back, and limbs as lithe 
As is the velvet muscle of the pard, 
Mephibosheth had been too fair for man. 

As if he were a vision that would fade, 
Rizpah gazed on him. Never, to her eye, 
Grew his bright form familiar ; but, lilce stars, 
That seem'd each night new lit in a new heaven. 
He was each morn's sweet gift to her. She loved 
Her firstborn, as a mother loves her child, 
Tenderly, fondly. But for him — the last — 
What had she done for heaven to be his mother ! 
Her heart rose in her throat to hear his voice ; 
She look'd at liim forever through her tears ; 
Her utterance, when she spoke to him, sank down, 
As if the lightest thought of him had lain 
In an unfathom'd cavern of her soul. 
The morning light was part of him, to her — 
What broke the day for, but to show his beauty ? 
The iiours but measured time till he should come ; 



(50) 

Too tardy sang the bird when he was gone ; 

She would have shut the flowers — and call'd the star 

Back to the mountain-top — and bade the sun 

Pause at eve's golden door — to wait for him ! 

Was this a heart gone wild? — or is the love 

Of mothers like a madness ? Such as this 

Is many a poor one in her humble home, 

Who silently and sweetly sits alone, 

Pouring her life all out upon her child. 

What cares she that he does not feel how close 

Her heart beats after his — that all unseen 

Are the fond thoughts that follow him by day, 

And watch his sleep like angels ? And, when moved 

By some sore needed Providence, he stops 

In his wild patli and lifts a thought to heaven, 

What cares the mother that he does not see 

The link between the blessing and her prayer ! 

He who once wept with Mary — angels keeping 
Their unthank'd watch — are a foreshadowing 
Of what love is in heaven. We may believe 
That we shall know each other's forms hereafter. 
And, in the bright fields of the better land, 
Call the lost dead to us. Oh ctonscious heart ! 
That in the lone paths of this shadowy world 
Hast bless'd all light, however dimly shining. 
That broke upon the darkness of thy way — 
Number thy lamps of love, and tell me, now, 
How many canst thou re-light at the stars 
And blush not at their burning ? One — one only — 



(51) 

Lit while your pulses by one heart kept time. 

And fed with faithful fondness to your grave — 

(The' sometimes with a hand stretch'd back from heaven,) 

Steadfast thro' all things — near, when most forgot — 

And with its fino;er of unerrinsr truth 

Pointing the lost way in thy darkest hour — 

One lamp — thy mother^ s love — amid the stars 

Shall lift its pure flame changeless, and, before 

The throne of God, burn through eternity — 

Holy — as it was lit and lent thee here. 

The hand in salutation gently raised 
To the bow'd forehead of the princely boy, 
Linger'd amid his locks. " I sold," he said, 
" My Lybian barb for but a cake of meal — 
Lo ! this — my mother ! As I pass'd the street, 
I hid it in my mantle, for there stand 
Famishing mothers, with their starving babes, 
At every threshold ; and wild, desperate men 
Prowl, with the eyes of tigers, up and down, 
Watching to rob those who, from house to house, 
Beg for the dying. Fear not thou, my mother ! 
Thy sons will be Elijah's ravens to thee !" 

[unfinished.] 



LAZARUS AND MARY. 



Testis was there but yesterday. The prints 
Of his departing feet were at the door ; 



'^ 



(52) 

His " Peace be with you !" was yet audible 
In the rapt porch of Mary's charmed ear ; 
And, in the low rooms, 'twas as if the air, 
Hush'd with his going forth, had been tlie breath 
Of anffels left on watch — so conscious still 
The place seem'd of his presence ! Yet, within, 
The family by Jesus loved were weeping, 
For Lazarus lay dead. 

And Mary sat 
By the pale sleeper. He was young to die. 
The countenance whereon the Saviour dwelt 
With his benignant smile — the soft fair lines 
Breathing of hope — were still all eloquent, 
Like life well mock'd in marble. That the voice, 
Gone from those pallid lips, was heard in heaven, 
Toned with unearthly sweetness — that the light, 
Quench'd in the closing of those stirless lids, 
Was veiling before God its timid fire. 
New-lit, and brightening like a star at eve — 
That Lazarus, her brother, was in bliss. 
Not with this cold clay sleeping — Mary knew. 
Her heaviness of heart was not for him ! 
But close had been the tie by Death divided. 
The intertwining locks of that bright hair 
That wiped the feet of Jesus — the fair hands 
Clasp'd in her breathless wonder while He -tauglit — 
Scarce to one pulse thrill'd more in unison, 
'J'han with one soul this sister and her brother 
Had lock'd their lives together. In this love, 



(53) 

Hallow'd from stain, the woman's heart of Mary 
Was, with its rich affections, all bound up. 
Of an unblemish'd beauty, as became 
An office by archangels fill'd till now, 
She walk'd with a celestial halo clad ; 
And while, to tlie Apostles' eyes, it seem'd 
She but fuIfiU'd her errand out of heaven — 
Sharing her low roof with the Son of God — 
She was a woman, fond and mortal still ; 
And the deep fervor, lost to passion's fire. 
Breathed through the sister's tenderness. In vain 
Knew Mary, gazing on that face of clay. 
That it was not her brother. He was there — 
Swathed in that linen vesture for the grave — 
The same loved one in all his comeliness — 
And with him to the grave her heart must go. 
What though he talk'd of her to angels ? nay — 
Hover'd in spirit near her ? — 'twas that arm, 
Palsied in death, whose fond caress she knew ! 
It was that lip of marble with whose kiss, 
Morning and eve, love hemm'd the sweet day in. 
This was the form by the Judean maids 
Praised for its palm-like stature, as he walkM 
With her by Kedron in the eventide — 
The dead was Lazarus r * * * * * 
The burial was over, and the night 
Fell upon Bethany — and morn — and noon. 
And comforters and mourners went their way — 
But death stay'd on ! They had been oft alone, 
When Lazarus had follow'd Christ to hear 



(®> 



~(« 



(54) 

His teachings in Jerusalem ; but this 
Was more than solitude. The silence now 
Was void of expectation. Something felt 
Always before, and loved without a name, — 
Joy from the air, hope from the opening door, 
Welcome and life from off the very walls, — 
Seem'd gone — and in the chamber where he lay 
There was a fearful and unbreathing hush. 
Stiller than night's last hour. So fell on Mary 
The shadows all have known, whose bleeding hearts 
Seem'd the torn gate through which the loved, departed, 
Broke from this world away. The parting soul 
Spreads wing betwixt the mourner and the sky ! 
As if its path lay, from the tie last broken, 
Straight through the cheering gateway of the sun ; 
And, to the eye strain'd after, 'tis a cloud 
That bars the light from all things. 

* Now as Christ 

Drew near to Bethany, the Jews went forth 
With Martha, mourning Lazarus. But Mary . 
Sat in the house. She knew the hour was nigh 
When He would go again, as He had said. 
Unto His Father; and she felt that He, 
Who loved her brother Lazarus in life, 
Had chose the hour to bring him home thro' Death 
In no unkind forgetful ness. Alone — 
She could lift up the bitter prayer to heaven, 
" Thy will be done, O God!"— but that dear brother 
Had fill'd the cup and broke the bread for Christ ; 
And ever, at the morn, when she had knelt 



1 1 
t®^. 



w) 



(55) 

And wash'd those holy feet, came Lazarus 

To bind his sandals on, and follow forth 

With dropp'd eyes, like an angel, sad and fair — 

Intent upon the Master's need alone. 

Indissolubly link'd were they! And now, 

To go to meet him — Lazarus not there — 

And to his greeting answer " It is well !" 

And, without tears, (since grief would weigh on Him 

Whose soul was over-sorrowful,) to kneel 

And minister alone — her heart gave way ! 

She cover'd up her face and turn'd again 

To wait within for Jesus. But once more 

Came Martha, saying, " Lo ! the Lord is here 

And calleth for thee, Mary !" Then arose 

The mourner from the ground, whereon she sate 

Shrouded in sackcloth, and bound quickly up 

The golden locks of her dishevell'd hair, 

And o'er her ashy garments drew a veil 

Hiding the eyes she could not trust. And still, 

As she made ready to go forth, a calm 

As in a dream fell on her. 

At a fount 
Hard by the sepulchre, without the wall, 
Jesus awaited Mary. Seated near 
Were the way-worn disciples in the shade ; 
But, of himself forgetful, Jesus lean'd 
Upon his staff, and watch'd where she should come 
To whose one sorrow — but a sparrow's falling — 
The pity that redeem'd a world could bleed ! 



c®> 



I 



(56) 

And as she came, with that uncertain step, — 

Eager, yet weak, — lier hands upon her breast,^ — 

And they who follow'd her all fallen back 

To leave her with her sacred grief alone, — 

The heart of Christ was troubled. She drew near, 

And the disciples rose up from the fount. 

Moved by her look of wo, and gather 'd round ; 

And Mary — for a moment — ere she look'd 

Upon the Saviour, stay'd her faltering feet, — 

And straighten'd her veil'd form, and tighter drew 

Her clasp upon the folds across her breast ; 

Then, wi'th a vain strife to control her tears, 

She stagger'd to their midst, and at His feet 

Fell prostrate, saying, " Lord ! hadst thou been here. 

My brother had not died !" The Saviour groan'd 

In spirit, and stoop'd tenderly, and raised 

The mourner from the ground, and in a voice, 

Broke in its utterance like her own. He said, 

" Where have ye laid him ?" Then the Jews who came. 

Following Mary, answer'd through their tears, 

" Lord ! come and see !" But lo ! the mio;htv heart 

That in Gethsemane sweat drops of blood. 

Taking for us the cuj) that might not )iass — 

The heart whose breaking cord upon the cross 

Made the earth tremble, and the sun afraid 

To look upon his agony — the heart 

Of a lost world's Redeemer-^^overflow'd, 

Touch'd by a mourner's sorrow ! Jesus wept. 

Calm'd by those pitying tears, and fondly brooding 



^(?^ 



( ■>^ ) 

Upon the thought that Christ so loved her brother, 
Stood Mary there ; but that lost burden now 
Lay on His heart who pitied her ; and Christ, 
Following slow, and groaning in Himself, 
j Came to the sepulchre. It was a cave, 

I And a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, 

" Take ye away the stone !" Then lifted He 
I His moisten'd eyes to heaven, and while the Jews 

\ And the disciples bent their heads in awe, 

And trembling Mary sank upon her knees. 
The Son of God pray'd audibly. He ceased. 
And for a minute's space there was a hush, 
As if th' angelic watchers of the world 
Had stay'd the pulses of all breathing things, 
To listen to that prayer. The face of Christ 
Shone as He stood, and over Him there came 
Command, as 'twere the living face of God, 
And with a loud voice. He cried, " Lazarus ! 
Come forth !" And instantly, bound hand and foot, 
And borne by unseen angels from the cave. 
He that was dead stood with them. At the word • 
Of Jesus, the fear-stricken Jews unloosed 
The bands from off the foldings of his shroud ; 
And Mary, with her dark veil thrown aside, 
Ran to him swiftly, and cried, " Lazarus ! 
My brother, Lazarus !" and tore away 
The napkin she had bound about his head — 
And touch'd the warm lips with her fearful hand — 
And on his neck fell wopping. And while all 
Lay on their faces prostrate, Lazarus 



(58) 

Took Mary by the hand, and they knelt down 
And worshipp'd Him who loved them. 



-^ 



THOUGHTS WHILE MAKING THE GRAVE OF A NEW-BORN 

CHILD. 

Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven ! 
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes, 

watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
But lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears. 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! 
But not tliat from this cup of bitterness 

A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 

One look upon thy face ere thou depart ! 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daugliter! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 

1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
A love — oh God*! it seems so — that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so, farewell ! 



( 59 ) 

'Tis a harsli world, in which affection knows 

No place to treasure np its loved and lost 

But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast sleeping 

Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, 

Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 

But it was sr-nt thee with some tender thought, 

How can I leave thae — here! Alas for man ! 

The herb in its humility may fall 

And waste into the bright and genial air. 

While we — by hands that minister'd in life 

Nothino; but love to us — are tlirust away — 

The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms. 

And the warm sunshine trodden out forever! 

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on. 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
The birds are never silent that build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
And far below, seen under arching leaves. 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies — • 



iS- 



(60) 

Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work 

Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 

To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 

Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 

The imaoes from all the silent rooms, 

And every sight and sound familiar to her 

Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 

The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever — 

Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 

Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 

Wakens the buds above thee, we will come, 

And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 

Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 

A child that we have loved is gone to heaven. 

And by this gate of Jlowers she passed aioay ! 



ON THE DEPATITURE OF REV. MR. WHITE 

FROM HIS PARISH, WHEN CHOSEN fRESIDENT OF WABASH COLLEGE. 

Leave us not, man of prayer ! Like Paul, hast thou 
" Served God with all humility of mind," 
Dwelling among us, and " with many tears," 
" From house to house," " by night and day not ceasing," 
Hast pleaded thy blest errand. Leave us not ! 
Leave us not now ! The Sabbath-bell, so long 
Link'd with thy* voice — the prelude to thy prayer — 
The call to us from heaven to come with thee 



(®))rrr: 



'm 



(61) 

Into the house of God, and, from thy lips, 

Hear what had fall'n upon thy heart — will sound 

Lonely and mournfully when thou art gone ! 

Our prayers are in tliy words — our hope in Christ 

Warm'd on thy lips— our darkling thoughts of God 

Follow'd thy loved call upward — and so knit 

Is all our worship with those outspread hands. 

And the imploring voice, which, well we knew. 

Sank in the ear of Jesus — that, with thee, 

The angel's ladder seems removed from sight. 

And we astray in darkness ! Leave us not ! 

Leave not the dead ! They have lain calmly down — 

Thy comfort in their ears — believing well 

That when thine own more holy work was done, 

Thou wouldst lie down beside them, and be near 

When the last trump shall summon, to fold up. 

Thy flock aflrighted, and, with that same voice 

Whose whisper'd promises could sweeten death, 

Take up once more the interru})ted strain. 

And wait Christ's coming, saying, " Here am f, 

And those whom thou hast given me !" Leave not 

The old, who, 'mid the gathering shadows, cling 

To their accustom'd staff, and know not how 

To lose thee, and so near the darkest hour ! 

Leave not the penitent, whose soul may be 

Deaf to the strange voice, but awake to thine ! 

Leave not the mourner thou hast sooth 'd — the heart 

Turns to its comforter again ! Leave not 

The child thou hast baptized ! another's care 

May not keep bright, upon the mother's heart. 



^ri' 



(02) 

The covenant seal ; the infant's ear has caught 
Words it has strangely ponder'd from thy lips, 
And tiie remember'd tone nnay find again, 
And quicken for the harvest, the first seed 
Sown for eternity ! Leave not the child ! 

Y"et if thou wilt — if, '' bound in spirit," thou 
Must go, and we shall see thy face no more, 
" The will of God be done !" We do not say 
Remember us — thou wilt — in love and prayer ! 
And thou wilt be remember'd — by the dead, 
Wlien the last trump awakes them — by the old, 
When, of the " silver cord" whose strength thou knowest. 
The last thread fails — by the bereaved and stricken, 
When the dark cloud, wherein thou found 'st a spot 
Broke by the light of mercy, lowers again — 
By the sad mother, pleading for her child. 
In murmurs difficult, since thou art gone — 
By all thou leavest, when the Sabbath-bell 
Brings us together, and the closing hymn 
Hushes our hearts to pray, and thy loved voice, 
That all our wants had grown to, (only thus, 
'Twould seem, articulate to God,) falls not 
Upon our listening ears — remember'd thus — 
Remember'd well — in all our holiest hours — 
Will be the faithful shepherd we have lost ! 
And ever with one prayer, for wliich our love 
Will find the pleading words, — that in the light 
Of heaven we may behold his face once more ! 



^ 



m 



(63) 



I 



I 



BIRTH-DAY VERSES. 

" The heart that we have Iain near before our birth, is the only one that 
cannot forget that it has loved us.*' — Philip Slingsbv. 

My birth-day ! — Oh beloved mother I 
My heart is with thee o'er the seas. 

I did not think to count another 
Before I wept upon thy knees — 

Before this scroll of absent years 

Was blotted with thy streaming tears. 

My own I do not care to check. 

1 weep — albeit here alone — 
As if I hung upon thy neck, 

As if thy lips were on my own, 
As if this full, sad heart of mine, 
Were beating closely upon thine. 

Four weary years ! How looks she now ? 

What light is in those tender eyes? 
What trace of time has touch'd the brow 

Wliose look is borrow 'd of the skies 
That listen to her nightly prayer ? 
How is she changed since he was there 
Who sleeps upon her heart alway — 

Whose name upon her lips is worn — 



m 



( «-l ) 

For whom the uiglu seems made to pray — 
For whom she wukes to pray at morn — 
Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir, 
Who weeps these tears — to think of her / 

I know not if my mother's eyes 

Would find me changed in slighter things ; 
I've wander'd beneath many skies, 

And tasted of some bitter springs ; 
And many leaves, once fair and gay, 
From youth's full flower have dropp'd away — 
But, as these looser leaves depart. 

The lessen'd flower gets near the core, 
And, when deserted quite, the heart 

Takes closer what was dear of yore — 
And yearns to those wlio loved it first — 
The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed. 

Dear mother ! dost thou love me yet ? 

Am I remember'd in my home ? 
When those I love for joy are met. 

Does some one wish that I would come ? 
Thou (lost — I am beloved of these ! 

But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er 
Night after night the Pleiades 

And finds the stars he found befoi-e — - 
As turns the maiden oft her token — 

As counts the miser aye his gold — 
So, till life's silver cord is broken, 

Would I of thy fond love be told. 



(65) 

My heart is full, mine eyes are wet — 
Dear mother ! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet ? 

Oh ! when the hour to meet again 

Creeps on — and, speeding o'er the sea. 
My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain. 

And, link by link, draws nearer thee — 
When land is hail'd, and, from the shore. 

Comes off the blessed breath of home, 
Witli fragrance from my mother's door 

Of flowers forgotten when I come — 
When port is gain'd, and, slowly now, 

The old familiar paths are pass'd. 
And, entering — unconscious how — 

I gaze upon thy face at last. 
And run to thee, all faint and weak, 
And . feel thy tears upon my cheek — 

Oh ! if my heart break not with joy. 
The light of heaven will fairer seem ; 

And I shall grow once more a boy : 
And, mother ! — 'twill be like a dream 

That we were parted thus for years — 

And once that we have dried our tears, 
. How will the days seem long and bright — 
To meet thee always with the morn. 

And hear thy blessing every night — 
Thy " dearest," tliy " first-born !" — 
And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn ! 



I 



(06) 



TO MY MOTHER FROM THE APPE NINES. 

Mother! dear mother! the feelings nurst 

As I hung at thjr bosom, clung round ihee first. 

'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 

'Tis the only one that will long remain : 

And as year by year, and day by day, j 

Some friend still trusted drops away, ' 

Mother ! dear mother ! oh dost thou see 

How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee ! 

Early Pokms 

'Tis midnijijht the lone mountains on — 
The East is fleck 'd with cloudy bars, 

And, gliding through tliem one by one. 
The moon walks up her path of stars — 

The light upon her placid brow 

Received from fountains unseen now. 

And happiness is mine to-night, 

Thus springing from an unseen fount ; 

And breast and brain are warm with light. 
With midniiii;ht round me on the mount — 

Its rays, like thine, fair Dian, flbw 

From far that Western star below. 

Dear mother ! in thy love I live ; 

The life thou gav'st flows yet from thee — 
And, sun-like, thou hast power to give 

Life to the earth, air, sea, for me ! 



II 



(® 



?^ 



(67) 

Though wandering, as this moon above, 
I'm dark without thv constant love. 



LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. 

Bright flag at yonder tapering mast ! 

Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
Let star and stripe be westward cast, 

And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! 
Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars ! 
Point home, my country's flag of stars ! 

The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels 

The pressure of the rising breeze, 
And, swiftest of a thousand keels, 

She leaps to the careering seas ! 
Oh, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, 

In whose white breast I seem to lie. 
How oft, when blew this eastern gale, 

I've seen your semblance in the sky, 
And loni^'d with breakinn^ heart to flee 
On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! 

Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld I 
I turn to watch our foamy track. 

And thouo-hts with which I first beheld 
Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; 



(fiS) 

My lips are dry with vague desire, — 

My clieek once more is hot with joy — 
My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! — 

01), what has changed that traveller-boy ! 
As leaves the ship this dying foam. 
His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home ! 

Adieu, oh soft and southern shore. 

Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven — 
Those forms of beauty seen no more. 

Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! 
Oh, still th' enamor'd sun delays, 

And pries through fount and crumbling fane, 
To win to his adoring gaze 

Those children of the sky again ! 
Irradiate beauty, such as never 

That light on other earth hath shone, 
Hath made this land her home forever ; 

And could I live for this alone — 
Were not my birthright brighter i'lir 

Than such voluptuous slaves, can be — 
Held not the West one glorious star 

New-born and blazing for the free — 
Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet — 
Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget ! 

Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see 

Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim, 

And though to freer skies I flee, 

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim ! 



^■-= - -- <@ 



•^;=- 



i! 



(69) 

As knows the dove the task you give her, 

V/hen loosed upon a foreign shore — 
As spreads the rain-drop in the river 

In which it may have flow'd before — 
To England, over vale and mountain, 

My fancy flew from climes more fair — 
My blood, that knev/ its parent fountain, 

Ran warm and fast in England's air. 

Dear mother! in thy prayer, to-night, 

There come new words and warmer tears! 
On long, long darkness breaks the light — 

Comes home the loved, the lost for years ! 
Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! 

Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! 
The ear of heaven bends low to her ! 

He comes to shore who sails willi me ! 
The spider knows the roof unriven, 

While swings his web, though lightnings blaze 
And by a thread still fast on heaven, 

I know my mother lives and prays 



f 



Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — 

When first our tears will let us see — 
When I can gaze upon thy cheek, 

And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me — 
'Twill be a pastime little sad 

To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers 
Upon each other's forms have had — 

For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! 



m-- 



(70) 

But there's a change, beloved mother! 

To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
I come — but with me comes another 

To share the heart once only mine ! 
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 

One star arose in memory's heaven — 
Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only — 

Water'd one flower with tears at even — 
Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left 

Is darken'd to lend light to ours ! 
There are bright flowers of care bereft. 

And hearts — that lans-uish more than flowers ! 
She was their light — their verv air — 
Room, mother ! in thy heart ! place for her in thy 

prayer ! 



A TRUE INCIDENT. 

UroN a summer's morn, a southern mother 

Sat at the curtain'd window of an inn. 

She rested from long travel, and with hand 

Upon her cheek in tranquil happiness, 

Look'd where the busy travellers went and came. 

And, like the shadows of the swallows flying 

Over the bosom of unruflled water, 

Pass'd from her thoughts all objects, leaving there, 

As in the water's breast, a mirror'd heaven — 



^;-- 



M 



(71) 

For, in the porch beneath her, to and fro, 

A nurse walk'd singing with her babe in arms. 

And many a passer-by look'd on the child 

And praised its wondrous beauty, but still on 

The old nurse troll'd her lullaby, and still, 

niest through her depths cf soul by light there shining, 

The mother in her revery mused on. 

But lo ! another traveller alighted ! 

And now, no more indifferent or calm. 

The mother's breath comes quick, and with the blood 

Warm in her cheek and brow, she murmurs low, 

" Now, God be praised ! I am no more alone 

In knowing I've an angel for my child, — 

Chance he to look on't only !" With a smile — 

The tribute of a beauty-loving heart 

To things from God new-moulded — would have pass'd 

The poet, as the infant caught his eye ; 

But suddenly he turn'd, and with his hand 

Upon the nurse's arm, he stay'd her steps, 

And gazed upon her burthen. 'Twas a child 

In whose large eyes of blue there shone, indeed, 

Something to waken wonder. Never sky 

In noontide depth, or softly-breaking dawn — 

Never the dew in new-born violet's cup. 

Lay so entranced in purity ! Not calm, 

With the mere hush of infancy at rest, 

The ample forehead, but serene with thought ; 

And by the rapt expression of the lips. 

They seem'd scarce still from a cherubic hymn ; 

And over all its countenance there breathed 



C ®)) ■—-. 



( -2 ) 

IJenignily, rnajestic as wc dream 
Angels wear ever, before God. With gaze 
Earnest and mournful, and his eyelids warm 
With tears kept back, the poet kiss'd the child ; 
And chasten'd at his heart, as having pass'd 
Close to an angel, went upon his way. 

Soon after, to the broken choir in heaven 
This cherub was recall 'd, and now the mother 
Bethought her, in her anguish, of the bard — 
(Herself a far-off stranger, but his heart 
Familiar to the world,) — and wrote to tell him, 
The ano;el he had recoarnlscd that morn, 
Had fled to bliss again. The poet well 
Remember'd that child's ministry to him ; 
And of the only fountain that he knew 
For healing, he sought comfort for the mother. 
And thus he wrote : — 

iViourn not for the child from thy tenderness r/'rrn, 
Ere stabi on its purity fell ! 

To thy questionmg heart, lo ! mi answer from heaven : 

" Is IT WELL WITH THE CHILD ?" " It IS WELL !" 



\ THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. 



They tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, 



^! 



^- 



'I 



(73) 

Whose restlessness is like the spread of winirs, 
Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — 
That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; 
And while thou sleep'st come messengers, they say, 
Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see 
Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven ! 

And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 
Why away, wandering fram a home of bliss. 
To find thy way through darkness home again ? 
Wert thou an untried dweller in th.e sky ? 
Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou wert, 
The clierub and the angel thou mayst be, 
A life's probation in this sadder world ? 
Art thou with memory of two things only. 
Music and light, left upon earth astray, 
And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 
Look'd for with fear and trenibling ? 

God ! who gavest 
Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 
To lead her through a world whose darkling patl-.s 
I tread with steps so faltering — leave not mo 
To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! 
I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 
The angels who nov/ visit her in dreams ! 
Bid them be near her pillow till in death 
The closed eyes look upon Thy face once more ! 
And let the light and music, whic.h the world 
Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 
Hails with sweet rccon;nition, be to her 



(74) 

A voice to call her upward, and a lamp 
To lead her steps unto Thee ! 



A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 

I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
Child of my love ! I tremble to believe 
That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 
A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
. Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
And, careless of the staining dust it brings. 
Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth 
Are visited by every air that stirs. 
And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven. 
May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
And bear the blight forever. 

I have wept 
With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! 
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 
Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast mven 
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower. 
To bring it unpolluted unto thee, 
Take thou its love, I pray thee ! Give it light — 
Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — 



(®) 



B- 



(75) 

But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 

Shimng about her, draw me to my child ! 

And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! 



* I 
I 



THIRTY-FJVE. 
" The years of a man's life are threescore and ten. 

On, weary heart ! thou'rt half-way home ! 

We stand on life's meridian height — 
As far from childhood's morning come, 

As to the grave's forgetful night. 
Give Youth and Hope a parting tear — 

Look onward with a placid brow — 
Hope promised but to bring us here. 

And Reason takes the guidance now — 
One backward look — the last — the last ! 
One silent tear — for Youth is past / 



Who goes with Hope and Passion back ? 
• Who comes with me and Memory on ? 
Oh, lonely looks the downward track — 

Joy's music hush'd — Hope's roses gone ! 
To Pleasure and her giddy troop 

Farewell, without a sigh or tear ! 
But heart gives way, and spirits droop, 

To think that Love may leave us here ! 



(70) 

Have we no charm when Youth is flown — 
Midway to death left sad and lone ! 

Yet stay ! — as 'twere a twilight star 

That sends its thread across the wave, 
I see a brightening light, from far, 

Steal down a path beyond the grave ! 
And now — bless God ! — its golden line * 

Comes o'er — and lights my shadowy way — 
And shows the dear hand clasp'd in mine ! 
But, list what those sweet voices say ! 
The letter lancVs in sight, 
And, hy its chastening light, 
All love from lifers midway is driven. 
Save hers whose clasj>M hand will bring thee on to heaven / 



CONTEMPLATION. 

" TiiEY are all up — the innumerable stars — 

And hold their place in heaven. My eyes have been 

Searching the pearly depths through which they spring 

Like beautiful creations, till I feel 

As if it were a new and perfect world, 

Waitinir in silence for the word of God 

To breathe it into motion. There they stand, 

Shining in order, like a living hymn 

Written in light, awaking at the breath 



(77) 

Of the celestial dawn, and praising Him 

Who made them, with the harmony of spheres. 

I would I had an angel's ear to list 

That melody. I would that I might float 

Up in that boundless element, and feel 

Its ravishing vibrations, like the pulse 

Beating in heaven ! My spirit is athirst 

For music — rarer music ! I would bathe 

My soul in a serener atmosphere 

Than this ; I long to mingle with the flock 

Led by the 'living waters,' and to stray 

In the ' green pastures' of the better land ! 

When wilt thou break, dull fetter ! When shall I 

Gather my wings, and like a rushing thought 

Stretch onward, star by star, up into heaven !" 

Thus mused Alethe. She was one to whom 

Life had been like the witching of a dream, 

Of an untroubled sweetness. She was born 

Of a high race, and lay upon the knee, 

With her soft eyes perusing listlessly 

The fretted roof, or, on Mosaic floors, 

Grasp'd at the tesselated squares inwrought 

With metals curiously. Her childhood pass'd 

Like faery — amid fountains and green haunts — 

Trying her little feet upon a lawn 

Of velvet evenness, and hiding flowers 

In her sweet breast, as if it were a fair 

And pearly altar to crush incense on. 

Her youth — oh ! that was queenly ! She was like 

A dream of poetry tliat may not be 



I 



(78) 

Written or told — exceeding beautiful ! 

And so came worshippers ; and rank bow'd down 

And breathed upon her heart-strings with the ])reath 

Of pride, and bound her forehead gorgeously 

With dazzling scorn, and gave unto her step 

A majesty — as if she trod tlie sea. 

And the proud waves, unbidden, lifted her ! 

And so she grew to woman — her mere look 

Strong as a monarch's signet, and her hand 

The ambition of a kingdom. From all thi-v 

Turn'd her high heart away ! She had a ^liiid, 

Deep, and immortal, and it would not feev 

On pageantry. She thirsted for a spring 

Of a serene r element, and drank 

Philosophy, and for a little while 

She was allay 'd, — till, presently, it turn'd 

Bitter within her, and her spirit grew 

Faint for undying waters. Then she came 

To the pure fount of God, and is athirst 

No more — save when the fever of the wor' 

Falleth upon her, she will go, sometimes, > 

Out in the star-light quietness, and breatiiS 

A holy aspiration after Heaven. 



ON THE DEATH OF A MJSSIONAIiY. 

How beautiful it is for man to die 
Upon the walls of Zion ! to be call'd, 



(79) 

Like a watcli-worn and weary sentinel, 
To put his armor off, and rest — in heaven ! 

The sun was setting on Jerusalem, 

The deep hlue sky had not a cloud, and light 

Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque, 

Like molten silver. Every thing was fair ; 

And beauty hung upon the painted fanes ; 

Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave . 

Her wing to air, for heaven. The crowds of men 

Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd 

Like wo, or suffering, save one small train 

Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by, 

And left no trace upon the busy throng. 

The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout 

Of joyous revelry, and the low hum 

Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ! 

Life look'd as winning ; and the earth and sky, 

And every thing seem'd strangely bent to make 

A contrast to that comment upon life. 

How- wonderful it is that human pride 

Can pass that touching moral as it does — 

Pass it so frequently, in all the force 

Of mournful and most simple eloquence — 

And learn no lesson ! They bore on the dead, 

With the slow step of sorrow, troubled not 

By the rude multitude, save, here and there, 

A look of vague inquiry, or a curse 

Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose sleeve 

Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall. 



(80) 

And Israel too pass'd on — the trampled Jew ! 

Israel ! — who made Jerusalem a throne 

For the wide world — pass'd on as carelessly ; 

(livinir no look of interest to tell 

The shrouded .dead was any thing to her. 

Oh that they would be gather'd as a brood 

Is gather'd by a parent's sheltering wings ! — 

They laid him down with strangers ; for his home 

Was witli the setting sun, and they who stood 

And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave, 

Were not his kindred ; but they found him there, 

And loved him for his ministry of Ciirist. 

He had died young. But there are silver'd heads, 

Whose race of duty is less nobly run. 

His heart was with Jerusalem ; and strong 

As was a mother's love, and the sweet ties 

Religion makes so beautiful at home, 

He flung them from him in his eager race. 

And sought the broken people of his God, 

To preach to them of Jesus. There was one. 

Who was his friend and helper. One wlio went 

And knelt beside him at the sepulchre 

Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel. 

Tliey had one spirit, and their hearts were knit 

With more than human love. God call'd him home. 

And he of whom I speak stood up alone. 

And in his broken-heartedness wrought on 

Until his Master call'd him. 

Oh, is it not a noble thinn- to din 



?^- 



li 

I ■ 



(81) 

As dies the Christian, with his armor on ! — 
What is the hero's clarion, though its blast 
Ring with the mastery of a world, to this ?- 
What are the searchino; victories of mind — 
The lore of vanish'd ages ? — What are all 
The trumpetings of proud humanity, 
To the short history of him who made 
His sepulchre beside the King of kings 1 



ON THE PICTURE OF A "CHILD TIRED OF PLAY." 

Tired of play ! Tired of play ! 

What hast thou done this livelong day! 

The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 

The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 

The doves have flown to the shelterinjr eaves. 

And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 

Twilight gathers, and day is done — 

How hast thou spent it — restless one ! 

Playing ? But what hast thou done beside 
To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
What promise of morn is l©ft unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
How with thy faults has duty striven ? 






(82) 

What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and by singing rill ? 

There will come an eve to a lono;er day. 

That will find thee tired — but not of play ! 

And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 

With drooping limbs and aching brow. 

And wish the shadows would faster creep, 

And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 

Well were it then if thine aching brow 

Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 

Well for thee, if thy lip could tell 

K tale like this, of a day spent well. 

If thine open hand hath relieved distress — 

If thy pity hath sprung to wretche(hiess — 

If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 

And humbled thy heart with penitence^ — 

If Nature's voices have spoken to thee 

With her holy meanings eloquently — 

If every creature hatli won thy love. 

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove — 

If never a sad, low-spoken word 

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 

Then, when the night steals on, as now, 

It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 

TIiou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 



i 

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(83) 



A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 

She had been told that God made all the stars 

That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 

Watching the coming of the twilight on, 

As if it were a new and perfect world, 

And this were its first eve. She stood alone 

By the low window, with the silken lash 

Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 

Half parted witli the new and strange delight 

Of beauty that she could not comprehend. 

And had not seen before. The purple folds 

Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 

That look'd so still and delicate above, 

Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve 

Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 

Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 

As if a pleasant thought were at lier heart. 

Presently, in the edge of the last tint 

Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 

To the faint golden mellowness, a star 

Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 

Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 

Her simple thought broke forth expressively — / 

" Father ! dear father ! God has made a star !" 



(84) 



ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 

She stood up in the meekness of a heart 

Resting on God, and held her fair young child 

Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 

Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 

To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 

The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 

Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith 

That it would be, even as he had pray'd, 

And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold 

Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 

Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears. 

Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 

The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 

With the baptismal water. Then I thought 

That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears 

Would be a deeper covenant — which sin 

And the temptations of the world, and death. 

Would leave unbroken — and that she would Imow 

In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 

The prayer which press'd them from her heart had been 

In leading its young spirit up to God. 






-^ 



(85) 



REVERIE AT GLENMARY. 

I HAVE enough, O God ! My heart to-nighl 
Runs over with its fulness of content ; 
And as I look out on llie fragrant stars, 
And from the beauty of the night take in 
My priceless portion — yet myself no more 
Than in the universe a grain of sand — 
I feel His glory who could make a world, 
Yet in the lost depths of the wilderness 
Leave not a flower unfmish'd ! 

Rich, though poor ! 
My low-roofd cottage is this hour a heaven. 
Music is in it — and the son<2: she sino-s, 
That sweet- voiced wife of mine, arrests the car 
Of my young child awake upon her knee ; 
And with his calm eye on his master's face. 
My noble hound lies couchant — and all here — 
All in this little home, yet boundless heaven — 
Are, in such love as I have power to give, 
Blessed to overflowing. 

Thou, who look'st 
Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew 
Sent to the hidden violet by Thee ; 



-^F^. 



(86) 

And, as that flower, from its unseen abode, 
Sends its sweet breath up, duly, to the sky, 
Clianging its gift to incense, so, oh God ! 
May the sweet drops that to my humble cup 
Vmd their far way from heaven, send up, to Thee, 
Fragrance at thy throne welcome ! 



TO A CITY PIGEON. 

Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove ! 
Thy daily visits have touch'd my love. 
I watcli thy coming, and list the note 
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat. 

And my joy is high 
To catch the i^lance of thy gentle eye. 

Why dost thou sit on the heated eaves. 

And forsake the wood with its freshen'd leaves? 

Why dost thou haunt the sultry street. 

When the paths of the forest are cool and sweet ? 

How canst thou bear 
This noise of people — this sultry air ? 



Thou alone of ihe feather'd race 

Dost look unscared on the human face ; 

Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 

Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; 



i 



b 



(87) 

And the " gentle dove" 
Has become a name for trust and love. 

A holy gift is thine, sweet bird ! 
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word ! 
Thou'rt link'd with all that is fresh and wild 
In the prison'd thouglits of the city child ; 

And thy glossy wings 
Are its brightest image of moving things. 

It is no light chance. Thou art set apart, 
Wisely by Him who has tamed thy heart, 
To stir the love for the bright and fair 
That else were seal'd in this crowded air ; 

I sometimes dream 
Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 

Come then, ever, when daylight leaves 
The page I read, to my humble eaves, 
And wash thy breast in the hollow spout. 
And murmur thy low sweet music out ! 

I hear and see 
Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in thee ! 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 



B 



I 
li 



(88) 

In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air : 
I love to see him track the street, 
Witli his wary eye and active feet ; 
And 1 often watch him as he springs. 
Circling the steeple with easy wings. 
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, 
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swellinor breast, 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel — 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 
Chime of the hour or funeral knell — 
The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
When the tonirue swino;s out to the midnin;ht moon— 
When the sexton checrly rings for noon — 
When the clock strikes clear at morning light — 
When the child is waked with " nine at night" — 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer- 
Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
lie broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, 
Oi, rising half in his rounded nest. 
He takes the time to smooth his breast. 
Then drops again with fdmed eyes, 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 



a- 



(89) 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
Thy lot, like mine, is .cast with men; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
1 tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
But, unlike me, when day is o'er. 
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, 
Or, at a half- felt wish for rest. 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
ifVrillen for a Picture.] 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 
And persuade myself that I am not old. 

And my locks are not yet gray ; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 

And makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years ; 
And they say that I am old. 



@- 



I 



(90) 

Tiial my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
And my years are well-nigh told. 

It is \ery true ; it is very true ; 
I'm old, and " I 'bide my time :" 

But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
And 1 half renew my prime. 

Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring 5 
I can feel the thrill of tlie dariiig jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay;, 

And I whooj) the smother'd call. 
And my feet slip up on tlie seedy floor, 

And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my lime shall come; 

And I shall be glad to go 3 
For the world at best is a weaiy plaee^ 

And my pulse is getting low ; 
But liic grave is dark, and (he heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles iny heart from its dreariness; 

To see the young so gay. 



- c* 



®= 



I 



(91) 



THE SABBATH. 

It was a pleasant morning, in the time 

When the leaves fall — and the briijjht sun shone out 

As when tlie morning stars first sang together — 

So quietly and cahiily fell his liglit 

Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf 

In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all 

Was still. The lab'ring herd was grazing 

Upon the hill-side quietly — uncall'd 

By the harsh voice of man ; and distant sound, 

Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not 

As usual on the ear. One hour stole on, 

And then another of the morning, calm 

And still as Eden ere the birth of man. 

And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells — 

And the old man, and his descendants, went 

Together to the house of God. I join'd 

The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man 

Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith — 

And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven — 

And the fair maid — and the bright-hair'd young man — 

And child of curling locks, just taught to close 

The lash of its blue eye the while ; — all knelt 

In attitude of prayer — and then the hymn, 

Sincere in its low melody, went up 

To worship God. 



m 



-^ 



( 92 ) 

The white-hair'd pastor rose 
And look''.! upon his flock — and with an eye 
Tlial toki his interest, and voice that spoke, 
In tremulous accents, eloquence like Paul's, 
He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths 
Of revelation, and persuasion came 
Like gushing waters from his lips, till hen its 
Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye 
Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear. 
I went my way — but as I went^ I felt 

Should have its tniies to set its Durden down.i : 



DEDICATION HYMN. 
[ fVrittcn to be sung at the consecration of JIanovir-sfrect Church, Boston.] 

The perfect world by Adam trod, 
Was the first temple—built by God — 
Ilis fiat laid the corner-stone, 
And heaved its pillars, one by one. 

He hung its starry roof on high — 
The broad illimitable sky ; 
He spread its pavement, green and bright, 
And curtain'd it with morning light. 



The mountains in their places stood — 
The sea — the sky — and "all was good;" 



^^' 



(93) 

And when its first pure praises rang, 
Tiie " morning stars together sang." 

Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
And earth and sky a house for thee ; 
But in thy sight our ofT'ring stands — 
A humbler temple, " made with hands.' 



HYMN. 

[ Written to he sung at the Dedication of the House of Industry and 
Home for the Friendless, December, 1848.] 

When God, to shield from cold and storm, 
Gave trees to build and fire to warm, 
He did not mark for each his part, 
But gave to each a human heart. 

Each heart is told the poor to aid, — 
Not told as thunder makes afraid — 
But by a small voice whispering there : 
Find thou for God the sufferer's share. 

Oh, prompting faint, to careless view, 
For work that angels well might do ! 
But wisely thus is taught below. 
Quick pity for another's wo. 



I 



'& 



:-^ 



(94) 

The world is stored — enough for all 
Is scatter'd wide 'twixt hut and hall ; 
And those who feast or friendless roam, 
Alike from God received a home. 

Each houseless one demands of thee, 
Ccm aught thou hast the jjoor man's be ? 
And pity breathes response divine, 
Take lohat I have from God that\s thine. 

For child, for woman's fragile form. 
More harsh the cold, more wild the storm ,• 
But most they bless a shelt'ring door. 
Whom dark temptations urge no more. 

A Home for these, O God, to-day, 
For blessing at thy feet we lay ; 
And may its shelter, humbly given, 
Be but a far-off door to heaven. 



■B 



(^ 



(97) 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE DYING ALCHYMIST. 

The night wind with a desolate moan swept by ; 
And the old shutters of the turret swunnc 
Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stain'd and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 

*^» ^U m^ ^U ^M ^ 4« 4a 

*^ •J* ^» "J* •^ ^i ^5 ^» 

The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
Yet still it burn'd ; and ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised liimself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals 
With difficult energy, and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
Mutter'd a curse on death ! The silent room, 
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from beneath his head, 



^- 



(98) 

And drank. And instantly his lips compress'd, 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and commvnied with himself: — 

I did not think to die 
Till I had finish'd what 1 bad to do; 
I thouglit to pierce th' eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye ; 
I felt — oh God ! it seemeth even now 
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ! 

And yet it is — I feel, 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ! 
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 

And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand — 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

And this is death ! But why 
Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be 
Th' immortal spirit shuddereth to be free ! 

Would it not leap to fly, 
Like a chain'd eaglet at its parent's call ? 
I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all ! 

Yet thus to pass away ! — 
To live but for a hope that mocks at last — 
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 

To waste the light of day, 



(99) 

Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought. 
All that we have and are — for this — for naught ! 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day — to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know somethino; here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 

Vain — vain ! — my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick. 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And I am freezinc: — burning; — 
Dying ! Oh God ! if I might only live ! 
My phial Ha ! it thrills me — I revive ! 

Ay — were not man to die, 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here — 

Could he but train his eye — 
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour — 
Only his Maker would transcend his power! 

Earth has no mineral strange — 
Th' illimitable air no hidden win£i;s — 
Water no quality in covert springs, 

And fire no power to change- 
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell. 
Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 



M 



-^ 



®) 



( 100 ) 

Oh, but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky — 
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye — 

To hurl the lightning back — 
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls — 
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon-walls — 

And more, much more — for now 
The life-seal'd fountains of my nature move — 
To nurse and purify this human love — 

To clear the godlike brow 
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, 
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one — 

This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slaken at the livinor stream — 
To live — oh God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death Aha ! I reel — 

Dim— dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye- 
Cover me ! save me ! God of heaven ! I die ! 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild. 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 






9 



(101) 

The storm was raging still. The shutters swung 
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, 
And all without went on — as aye it will, 
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 

The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
The vessels of his mystic art lay round. 
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashion'd them, and the small rod, 
Familiar to his touch for threescore years. 
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements at its master's will. 

And thus had pass'd from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire — a sun-bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down — an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. Oh how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies. 
Like the adventurous bird that hath out-flown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wreck'd — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest ! 



--^<m 



(102) 



PARRHASIUS. ■ 

• 

"Parrhaslus, a painter of Athens, among those Olynthian captives Philip 
of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man ; and when he 
had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and torment, 
the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Pro- 
metheus, whom he was then about to paint." — Bai'lon's Anat. of Mel. 

There stood an unsold captive in the mart, 

A gray-hair'd and majestical old man, 

Chain'd to a pillar. It was almost night, 

And the last seller from his place had gone. 

And not a sound was heard but of a dog 

Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, 

Or 'the dull echo from the pavement rung. 

As the faint captive changed his weary feet. 

He had stood there since morning, and had borne 

From every eye in Athens the cold gaze 

Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him 

For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came 

And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, * 

And touch'd his unheal'd wounds, and with a sneer 

Pass'd on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent, 

He bow'd his head in a forgetful sleep, 

Th' inlmman soldier smote him, and, with tli rents 

Of torture to his children, summon'd back 

The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 

'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun 



— (C^)' 



( 103 ) li 

Tipp'd with a golden fire the many domes 

Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere 

Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street 

Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up 

With a stout heart that long and weary day, 

Haughtily patient of his many wrongs. 

But now he was alone, and from his nerves 

The needless strength departed, and he lean'd 

Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts 

Thi-jng on him as they would. Unmark'd of him, 

Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, 

Gazing upon his grief. Th' Athenian's cheek 

Flush'd as he measured with a painter's eye 

The moving picture. The abandon'd limbs, 

Stain'd with the oozinir blood, were laced with veins 

Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, 

Thin and disorder'd, hung about his eyes ; 

And as a thought of wilder bitterness 

Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, 

And the fast workings of his bloodless face 

Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. 

^0 ^^ 9^ ^0 ^^ t^ a^ ^# 

The golden light into the painter's room 
Stream'd richly, and the hidden colors stole 
From the dark pictures radiantly forth. 
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere 
Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. 
The walls were hung with armor, and about 
In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms 
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and storn .love, 



s^- 



^- 



I 



( 101 ) 

And from t!ie casement soberly away 

Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and triH?^ 

And, like a veil of filmy mellowness. 

The lint-spects floated in the twilight air. 

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully 

Upon his canvass. There Prometheus lay, 

Chain 'd to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — 

The vulture at his vitals, and the links 

Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; 

And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, 

Rapt mystery, and pluck'd the shadows forth 

With its far-reaching fancy, and with form 

And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye, f 

Flash'd with a passionate fire, and the quick curl 

Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip 

Were like the wing'd God's, breathing from his flight. 

" Bring me the captive now ! 
Pvfy hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift, 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens — around me play 
Colors of such divinity to-day. 

" Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! 

Now — bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poison'd links into his flesh ! 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 



®- 



ll 

I 



^^ 



( io"3 ) 

" So — let him writhe ! How long 
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 

Ha ! gray-hair'd, and so strong ! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 

" ' Pity' thee ! So I do ! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
But does tlie robed priest for his pity falter ? 

I'd rack thee though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 



li i 



Hereafter !' Ay — hereafter ! 
A whip to keep a coward to his track ! 
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back 

To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story— 
And I may take some softer path to glory. 

" No, no, old man ! we die 
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! 

Strain well thy fainting eye — 
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 
The light of heaven will never reach thee more. 



1 1 

I! 

'i 



" Yet there's a deathless Tiame / j! 

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn. 



^5^ 



^ s:,=^::=r:- ' g 



•@ 



( 108 ) 

And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — 

And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! 

" Ay — though it bid me rifle 
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first — 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — 

" All— I would do it ail- 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — 
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! 

Oh heavens ! — but I appal 

Your heart, old man ! forgive ha ! on your lives 

Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! 

" Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow ! 

Gods ! if he do not die 
But for otie moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! 

" Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters 
Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh Death ! 

Look ! how his temple flutters ! 



(^ 



( 107 ) 

Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! 

He shudders — gasps— Jove help him ! — so — he's dead." 



How like a mounting devil in the heart 

Rules the unrein'd ambition ! Let it once 

But play the monarcli, and its haughty brow 

Glows with a 'beauty that bewilders thought 

And unthrones peace forever. Putting on 

The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns 

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring 

Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, 

We look upon our splendor and forget 

The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life 

Many a falser idol. There are hopes 

Promising well ; ancT love-touch 'd dreams for some : 

And passions, many a wild one ; and fair schemes 

For gold and pleasure — yet will only this 

Balk not the soul — Ambition only, gives, 

Even of bitterness, a beaker full / 

Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, 

Troubled at best — Love is a lamp unseen, 

BurniniT to waste, or, if its lii^ht is found. 

Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken — 

Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, 

And Quiet is a hunger never fed — 

And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, 

Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — 

From all but keen Ambition-^will the soul 

Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness 



(®) 



rrX 



( 108 ) 

To wander like a restless child away. 

Oh, if there were not better hopes than these — 

Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame — 

If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart 

Must canker in its coffers — if the links 

Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — 

If the deep-vearning love, that hath not found 

Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears — 

If truth, and fervor, and devotedness. 

Finding no worthy altar, must return 

And die of their own fulness — if beyond 

The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air 

The spirit may find room, and in the love 

Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart 

May spend itself — wUal thrice-mock'' d fools are toe f 



THE SCHOLAR OF THEBET BEN KHORAT.* 

" Influentia coeli morbum hunc movet, interdum omnibus aliis amotis." — 
Melancthon de Anima, Cap. de Humoribiis. 

I. 

Night in Arabia. An hour ago, 

Pale Dian had descended from the sky, 

* A famous Arabian astrologer, who is said to have spent forty years in 
discovering the motion of the eighth sphere. He had a scholar, a young 
Bedouin Arab, who, with a singular passion for knowledge, abandoned his 
wandering tribe, and, applying himself too closely to astrology, lost his 
reason and died. 



L®) — 



( 109 ) 

Flinging her cestus out upon the sea, 

And at their watches, now, the solemn stars 

Stood vigilant and lone ; and, dead asleep, 

With not a shadow moving on its breast. 

The breathing earth lay in its silver dew, 

And, trembling on their myriad viewless wings, 

Th' imprison'd odors left the flowers to dream, 

And stole away upon the yielding air. 

Ben Khorat's tower stands shadowy and tall 

In Mecca's loneliest street ; and ever there, 

When night is at the deepest, burns his lamp 

As constant as the Cynosure, and forth 

From his loop'd window stretch the brazen tubes, 

Pointini^ forever at the central star 

Of that dim nebula just lifting now 

Over Mount Arafat. The sky to-night - 

Is of a clearer blackness than is wont. 

And far within its depths the colored stars* 

Sparkle like gems — capricious Antaresf 

Flushing and paling in the Southern arch ; 



* " Even to the naked eye, the stars appear of palpably diflerent colors ; 
but when viewed with a prismatic glass, they may be very accurately classed 
into the red, the yellow, the brilliant white, the dull white, and the anom- 
aloHS. This is true also of the planets, which shine by reflected light, and 
of course the difl'erence of color must be supposed to arise from their dif- 
ferent powers to absorb and reflect the rays of the sun. The original com- 
position of the stars, and the diflerent dispersive powers of their diflerent 
atmospheres, may be supposed to account also for this phenomenon." 

t This star exhibits a peculiar quality — a rapid and beautiful change in the 
color of its light ; every alternate twinkling being of an intense reddish 
crimson color, and the answering one of a brilliant white. 



•^ — y 



10 



(d) 



(110) 

And azure Lyra, like a woman's eye, 

Burning with soft blue lustre ; and away 

Over the desert the bright Polar star, 

White as a flashing icicle ; and here, 

Hung like a lamp above th' Arabian sea, 

Mars with his dusky glow ; and fairer yet. 

Mild Sirius,* tinct with dewy violet, 

Set like a flower upon the breast of Eve ; ,^. 

And in the zenith the sweet Pleiades,']' 

(Alas — that even a star may pass from heaven 

And not be miss'd !) — the linked Pleiades 

Undimm'd are there, though from the sister band 

The fairest has gone down ; and, South away, 

Hirundoij: with its little company ; 

And white-brow'd Vesta, lamping on her path 

Lonely and planet-calm, and, all through heaven, 

Articulate almost, they troop to-night. 

Like unrobed angels in a prophet's trance. 

Ben Khorat knelt before his telescope, § 
Gazing with earnest stillness on the stars. 
The gray hairs, struggling from his turban-folds, 
Play'd with the entering wind upon his cheeks, 

* When seen with a prismatic glass, Sirius shows a large brush of exceed- 
ingly beautiful rays. 

t The Pleiades are vertical in Arabia. 

X An Arabic constellation placed instead of the Piscis Australis, because 
the swallow arrives in Arabia about the time of the heliacal rising of the 
Fishes. 

§ An anachronism, the author is aware. The Telescope was not invented 
for a century or two after the time of Ben Khorat. 



# 



I 



(111 ) 

And on his breast his venerable beard 
With supernatural whiteness loosely fell. 
The black flesh swell 'd about his sandal-thono-s. 
Tight with his painful posture, and his lean 
And witherV^ fingers to his knees were clench'd, 
And the thin lashes of his straining eye 
Lay with unwinking closeness to the lens, 
Stiffen'd with tense up-turning. Hour by hour, 
Till the stars melted in the flush of morn, 
The old astrologer knel-t moveless there, 
Ravish'd past pain with the bewildering spheres. 
And, hour by hour, v/ith the same patient thought, 
Pored his pale scholar on the characters 
Of Chaldee writ, or, as his gaze grew dim 
With weariness, the. dark-eyed Arab laid 
His head upon the window and look'd forth 
Upon the heavens awhile, until the dews. 
And the soft beauty of the silent niglit 
Cool'd his flush'd eyelids, and then patiently 
He turn'd unto his constant task aj^ain. 



The sparry glinting of the Morning Star 
Shot through the leaves of a majestic palm 
Fringing Mount Arafat, and, as it caught 
Tlie eye of the rapt scholar, he arose 
And clasp'd the volume with an eager haste, 
And as the glorious planet mounted on, 
Melting her way into the upper sky, 
He breathlessly gazed on her : — 






( 11--^ ) 

*' Star of the silver ray ! 
Bright as a god, but punctual as a slave — 
What spirit the eternal canon gave 

That bends thee to thy way ? 
What is the soul that, on thine arrowy light, 
Is walking earth and heaven in pride to-night ? 

" We know when thou wilt soar 
Over the mount — thy change, and place, and tiinc — 
^Tis written in the Chaldee's mystic rhyme 

As 'twere a priceless lore I 
I knew as much in my Bedouin garb — 
Coursing the desert on my flying barb ! 

" How oft amid the tents 
Upon Sahara's sands I've walk'd alone. 
Waiting all night for thee, resplendent one ! 

With what magnificence, 
In the last watclics, to my thirsting eye, 
Thy passionate beauty flush'd into the sky I 

" Oh God ! how flew my soul » 
Out to thy glory — upward on thy ray — 
Panting as thou ascendedst on thy way. 

As if thine own control — 
This searchless spirit that I cannot find — 
Had set its radiant law upon my mind ! 

" More than all stars in heaven 
1 felt thee in my lieart ! my love became 



1 
^ 



(®) 



(113) 

A frenzy, and consumed me with its flame. 

Ay, in the desert even — 
My dark-eyed Abra coursing at my side — 
The star, not Abra, was my spirit's bride ! 

" My Abra is no more ! 
My ' desert-bird' is in a stranger's stall — 
My tribe, my tent — I sacrificed them all 

For this heart-wasting lore ! — 
Yet, than all these, the thought is sweeter far — 
Thou imrt ascendant at my hirth, bright star! 

" The Chaldee calls me thine — 
And in this breast, that I must rend to be 
A spirit upon wings of liglit like thee, 

I feel that thou art mine ! 
Oh God ! that these dull fetters would give way 
And let me forth to track thy silver ray !" 



* * * * Ben Khorat rose 
And silently look'd forth upon the East. 
The dawn was stealing up into the sky 
On its gray feet, the stars grew dim apace, 
And faded, till the Morning Star alone, 
Soft as a molten diamond's liquid fire, 
Burn'd in the heavens. The morn grew freshlier- 
The upper clouds were faintly touch'd with gold ; 
The fan-palms rustled in the early air ; 
Daylight spread cool and broadly to the hills ; 
And still the star was visible, and still 



10* 



--m 



B-- 



-~ (®j 



(114) 

The young astronomer with straining eye 
Drank its departing light into his soul. 
It faded — melted — and the fiery rim 
Of the clear sun came up, and painfully 
The passionate scholar press'd upon his eyes 
His dusky fingers, and, with limhs as weak 
As a sick child's, turn'd famting to his couch, 
And slept. ****** 



II. 

* * It was the morning watch once more, 

The clouds were drifting rapidly above. 

And dim and fast the glimmering stars flew througli ; 

And as the fitful gust sougli'd mournfully. 

The shutters shook, and on the sloping roof 

Plash'd, heavily, large, single drops of rain — 

And all was still ai^ain. Ben Khorat sat 

By the dim lamp, and, while his scholar slept, 

Pored on the Chaldee wisdom. At his feet, 

Stretch'd on a pallet, lay the Arab boy. 

Muttering fast in his unquiet sleep. 

And working his dark fingers in his palms 

Convulsively. His sallow lips were pale. 

And, as they moved, his teeth show'd ghastly through, 

White as a charnel bone, and — closely drawn 

Upon his sunken eyes, as if to press 

Some frijrhtful imao;e from the bloodshot balls — 

His lids a moment quiver'd, and again 



m- 






( ^15 ) 

Relax'd, half open, in a calmer sleep. 

Ben Khorat gazed upon the dropping sands 

Of the departing hour. The last white grain 

Fell through, and with the tremulous hand of age 

Tlie old astrologer reversed the glciss ; 

And, as the voiceless monitor went on, 

Wasting and wasting with the precious hour, 

lie look'd upon it with a moving lip, 

And, starling, turn'd his gaze upon the heavens, 

Cursing the clouds impatiently. 

« 'Tis time !" 
Mutter'd the dying scholar, and he dash'd 
The tangled hair from his black eyes away, 
And, seizing on Ben Khorat's mantle- folds, 
He struggled to his feet, and falling prone 
Upon the window-ledge, gazed steadfastly 
Into the East : — 

" There is a cloud between — 
She sits this instant on the mountain's brow, 
And that dusk veil hides all her glory now — 

Yet floats she as serene 

Into the heavens ! Oh God ! that even so 

I could o'ermount ??iy spirit-cloud, and go ! 

" The cloud begins to drift ! 
Aha ! fling open ! 'tis the star — the sky ! 
Touch me, immortal mother ! and 1 fly ! 

Wider ! thou cloudy rift ! 



®^ 



( llfi ) 

Let through ! — such glory should have radiant room ! 
Let through ! — a star-child on its light goes home ! 

" Speak to me, hrethren bright ! 
Ye who are floatinir in tliese livin"; beams ! 
Ye who have come to me in starry dreams ! 

Ye who have wing'd the light 
Of our brio;ht mother with its thouo;hts of flame — 
— (1 knew it pass'd through spirits as it came) — 

" Tell me ! what power have ye ? 
What are the heights ye reach upon your wings ? 
What know ye of the myriad wondrous things 

r perish but to see ? 
Are ye thought-rapid ? — Can ye fly as far — 
As instant as a thouo;ht, from star to star ? 

" Where has the Pleiad gone ? 
Wliere liave all missing stars* found light and home ? 
Who bids the Stella Miraf go and come? 



* ' Missing stars' are often spoken of in the old 'books of astronomy. 
Hipparchus mentions one that appeared and vanished very suddenly ; and 
in the beginning of the sixteenth century Kepler discovered a new star near 
the heel of the right foot of Serpentarius, "so bright and sparkling that it 
exceeded any thing he had ever seen before." He " took notice that it 
was every moment changing into some of the colors of the rainbow, ex- 
cept when it was near the horizon, when it was generally white." It dis- 
appeared in the following year, and has not been seen since. 

t A wonderful star in the neck of the Whale, discovered by Fabricius in 
the fifteenth century. It appears and disappears seven times in six years, 
and continues in the greatest lustre for fifteen days together. 



(117) 

Why sits the Pole-star lone ? 
And why, like banded sisters, through the air 
Go in bright troops the constellations fair ? 

" Ben Khorat ! dost thou mark ? 
The star ! the star ? By heaven ! the cloud drifts o'er ! 
Gone — and I live ! nay — will my heart beat more ? 

Look ! master ! 'tis all dark ! 
Not a clear speck in heaven ? — my eyeballs smother ! 
Break throuirh the clouds once more ! oh starry mother ! 

" I will lie down ! Yet stay, 
The rain beats out the odor from the gums. 
And strangely soft to-night the spice-wind comes I 

I am a child alway 
When it is on my forehead ! Abra sweet ! 
Would I were in the desert at thy feet ! 

" My barb ! my glorious steed ! 
Methinks my soul would mount upon its track 
More fleetly, could I die upon thy back ! 

How would thy thrilling speed 
Quicken my pulse ! — Oh Allah ! I get wild ! 
Would that I were once more a desert-child ! 

" Nay — nay — I had forgot ! 
My mother ! my star mother ! — Ha ! my breath 
Stifles ! more air ! Ben Khorat ! this is — deatli ! 

Touch me ! 1 feel you not ! 



(118) 

Dying ! — Farewell ! good master ! — room ! more room I 
Abra ! I loved thee ! star ! bright star ! I come !'* 

How idly of the human heart we speak, 

Giving it gods of clay ! How worse than vain 

Is the school homily, that Eden's fruit 

Cannot be pluck'd too freely from "the tree 

Of good and evil." Wisdom sits alone, 

Topmost in heaven; — she is its light — its God! 

And in the heart of man she sits as hi2;h — 

Though grovelling eyes forget her oftentimes, 

Seeing but this world's idols. The pure mind 

Sees her forever : and in youth we come 

Fill'd with her sainted ravishment, and kneel, 

Worshipping God through her sweet altar-fires, 

And then is knowledge " good." We come too oft — 

The heart grows proud with fulness, and we soon 

Look with licentious freedom on the maid 

Throned in celestial beauty. There she sits. 

Robed in her soft and seraph loveliness, 

Instructino; and formvinn;, and we caze 

Until desire grows wild, and, with our hands 

Upon her very garments, are struck down. 

Blasted with a consuming fire from heaven ! 

Yet, oh ! how full of music from her lips 

Breathe tlie calm tones of wisdom ! Human praise 

Is sweet — till envy mars it, and the touch 

Of new- won gold stirs up the pulses well ; 

And woman's love, if in a beggar's lamp 

'Twould burn, might light us clearly through the world ; 



c® 



(119) 

But Knowledo-e hath a far more 'wilderinfr tono-«e. 
And she will stoop and lead you to tiie stars, 
And witch you with her mysteries — till gold 
Is a forgotten dross, and power and fame 
Toys of an hour, and woman's careless love. 
Light as the breath that breaks it. He wlio binds 
[lis soul to knowledge steals the key of heaven — 
But 'tis a bitter mockery that the fruit 
May hang within his reach, and when, with thirst 
Wrought to a maddening frenzy, he would taste — 
It burns his lips to ashes ! 



THE WIFE'S APPEAL. 

" Love borrows greatly from opinion. Pride, above all things, strengthens 
aflection." — E. L. Bulwer. 

He sat and read. A book with silver clasps. 

All gorgeous with illuminated lines 

Of gold and crimson, lay upon a frame 

Before him. 'Twas a volume of old time ; 

And in it were fine mysteries of the stars 

Solved with a cunning wisdom, and strange thoughts. 

Half prophecy, half poetry, and dreams 

Clearer than truth, and speculations wild 

That touch'd the secrets of your very soul, 



( 120 ) 

They were so based on Nature. With a face 

Glowinfij with thouglit, he pored upon the book. 

Tlie cushions of an Indian loom lay soft 

Beneath his limbs, and, as he turn'd the page, 

Tiie sunlight, streaming through the curtain's fold, 

Fell with a rose-tint on his jewell'd hand ; 

And the rich woods of the quaint furniture 

Lay deepening their vein'd colors in the sun, 

And the stain'd marbles on the pedestals 

Stood like a silent company — Voltaire, 

With an infernal sneer upon his lips ; • 

And Socrates, with godlike human love 

Stamp'd on his countenance ; and orators, 

Of times gone by that made them ; and old bards. 

And Medicean Venus, half divine. 

Around the room were shelves of dainty lore, 

And rich old pictures hung upon the walls 

Where the slant light fell on them ; and wrought gems. 

Medallions, rare mosaics, and antiques 

From Herculaneum, the niches fiU'd ; 

And on a table of enamel, wrought 

With a lost art in Italy, there lay 

Prints of fair women, and engravings rare, 

And a new poem, and a costly toy ; 

And in their midst a massive lamp of bronze 

Burning sweet spices constantly. Asleep 

Upon the carpet couch'd a graceful hound. 

Of a rare breed, and, as his master gave 

A murmur of delight at some sweet line. 

He raised his slender head, and kept his eye 



(®JI 



(121) 

Upon him till the pleasant smile had pass'd 
From his mild lips, and then he slept again. 
The light beyond the crimson folds grew dusk, 
And the clear letters of the pleasant book 
Mingled and blurr'd, and the lithe hound rose up. 
And, with his earnest eye upon the door, 
Listen'd attentively. It came as wont — 
The fall of a light foot upon the stair — 
And the fond animal sprang out to meet 
His mistress, and caress the ungloved hand, 
He seem'd to know was beautiful. She stoop'd 
Gracefully down and touch'd his silken ears 
As she pass'd in — then, with a tenderness, 
Half playful and half serious, she knelt 
Upon the ottoman and press'd her lips 
Upon her husband's forehead. 

She rose and put the curtain-fulds aside 
From the high window, and look'd out upon 
The shining stars in silence. " Look they not 
Like Paradises to thine eye ?" he said — 
But, as he spoke, a tear fell through the light — 
And — startinn; from his seat — he folded her 
Close to his heart, and — with unsteady voice — 
Ask'd — if slie was not happy. A faint smile 
Broke through her tears ; and pushing off the hair 
From his broad forehead, she held back his head 
With her white hand, and, gazing on his face. 
Gave to her heart free utterance : — 

II 

® ^ - = ^ ===@ 



^ 



(122) 

" Happy ? — yes, dearest ! — blest 
Beyond the limit of my wildest dream — 
Too bright, indeed, my blessings ever seem ; 

There lives not in my breast 
One of Hope's promises by Love unkept. 
And yet — forgive me, Ernest — 1 have wept. 



ii 



How shall I speak of sadness, 
And seem not thankless to my God and thee ? 
How can the lightest wish but seem to be 

The very whim of madness ? 
Yet, oh, there is a boon thy love beside — 
And I will ask it of thee — in my pride ! 



" List, while my boldness lingers ! 
If thou hadst won yon twinkling star to hear thee — 
If thou couldst bid the rainbow's curve bend near thee— 

If thou couldst charm thy fingers 
To weave for thee the sunset's tent of gold — 
Wouldst in thine own heart treasure it untold ? 



" If thou hadst Ariel's gift. 
To course tlie veined metals of the earth — 
If thou couldst wind a fountain to its birth — 

If thou couldst know the drift 
Of the lost cloud that sail'd into the sky — 
Wouldst keep it for thine own unanswer'd eye ? 

" It is thy life and mine ! — 
Thou, in thyself — and I in thee — misprison 



(123) 

Gifts like a circle of brin-bt stars unrisen — 

For tbou wbose mind should shine, 
Eminent as a planet's light, art here — 
Moved with the starting of a woman's tear ! 

" I have told o'er thy powers 
In secret, as a miser tells bis gold ; 
I know thy spirit calm, and true, and bold : 

I've watch'd thy lighte.st hours, 
And seen thee, in the wildest flush of youth, 
Touch'd with tlie instinct ravishment of truth. 

" Thou bast the secret strange 
To read that hidden book, the human heart ; 
Thou bast the ready writer's practised art ; 

Thou hast the thou2;ht to ranire 
The broadest circles Intellect hath ran — 
And thou art God's best work — an honest man ! 

" And yet thou slumberest here 
Like a caged bird that never knew its pinions, 
And others track in glory the dominions 

Where thou hast not thy peer — 
Setting their weaker eyes unto the sun, 
And plucking honor that thou shouldst have Mon. 

" Oh, if thou lovedst me ever, 
Ernest, my husband ! — if th' idolatry 
That lets go heaven to fling its all on thee — 

If to dismiss thee never 



rrr.1(®) 



( 124 ) 

In dream or prayer, have given me aught to claim — 
Heed me — oh, heed me ! and awake to fame !" 

Her lips 
Closed with an earnest sweetness, and she sat 
Gazing into his eyes as if her look 
Search'd their dark orbs for answer. The warm blood 
Into his temples mounted, and across 
His countenance the flush of passionate thoughts 
Pass'd with irresolute quickness. He rose up 
And paced the dim room rapidly awhile, 
Calming his troubled mind ; and then he came 
And laid his hand upon her orbed brow. 
And in a voice of heavenly tenderness 
Answer'd her : — 

" Before I knew thee, Mary, 
Ambition was my angel. I did hear 
Forever its witch 'd voices in mine ear ; 

My days were visionary — 
My nights were like the slumbers of the mad — ■ 
And every dream swept o'er me glory-clad. 

" I read the burning letters 
Of warlike pomp, on History's page, alone ; 
I counted nothing the struck widow's moan ; 

I heard no clank of fetters ; 
I only felt the trumpet's stirring blast. 
And lean-eyed Famine stalk'd unchallenged jiast ! 



m.^- 



(125) 

" I Iieard with veins of lightning 
The utterance of the Statesman's word of power — 
Bindinjj and loosing nations in an hour — 

But, while my eye was briglit'ning, 
A mask'd detraction breathed upon his fame, 
And a cursed serpent slimed his written name. 

" The Poet rapt mine ears 
With the transporting music that he sung. 
With fibres from his life his lyre he strung, 

And bathed the world in tears — 
And then he turn'd away to muse apart, 
And Scorn stole after him — and broke his heart ! 

" Yet here and there I saw 
One who did set the world at calm defiance, 
And press right onward with a bold reliance ; 

And he did seem to awe 
The very shadows pressing on his breast. 
And, with a strong heart, held himself at rest. 

" And then I look'd again — 
And he had shut the door upon the crowd, 
And on his face he lay and groaii'd aloud — 

Wrestling with hidden pain ; 
And in her chamber sat his wife in tears, 
And his sweet babes grew sad with whisper'd fears. 

" And so I turn'd sick-hearted 
From the bright cup away, and, in my sadness, 



(12fi) 

Search'd mine own bosom for some spring of gladness ; 

And lo ! a fountain started 
Whose waters even in death flow cahn and fast, 
And my wild fever-thirst was slaked at last. 

" And then I met thee, Mary, 
And felt how love may into fulness pour, 
Like light into a fountain running o'er : 

And I did hope to vary 
My life but witii surprises sweet as this — 
A dream^— but for thy waking — fill'd with bliss. 

" Yet now I feel my spirit 
Bitterly stirr'd, and — nay, lift up thy brow ! 
It is thine own voice echoing to thee now, 

And thou didst pray to hear it — 
I must unto my work and my stern hours ! 
Take from my room thy harp, and books, and flowers ! 



And in his room again he sat alone. 
His frame had lost its fulness in that time ; 
His manly features had grown sharp and thin. 
And from his lips the constant smile had faded. 
Wild fires had burn'd the languor from his eye : 
The lids look'd fever'd, and the brow was bent 
With an habitual frown. He was much chann;ed. 
His chin was resting on his clenched hand, 
And with his foot he beat upon the floor, 






( 12' ) 

Unconsciously, the time of a sad tune. 
Thoughts of l!ie past prey'd on him bitterly. 
He had won power and held it. He had walk'd 
Steadily upward in the eye of Fame, 
And kept his truth unsullied — but his home 
Had been invaded by envenom'd tongues ; 
His wife — his spotless wife — had been assail'd 
By slander, and his child had grown afraid 
To come to him — his manner was so stern. 
He could not speak beside his own hearth freely. 
His friends were half estranged, and vulgar men 
Presumed upon their services and grew 
Familiar with him. He'd small time to sleep. 
And none to ])ray ; and, with his heart in fetters, 
He bore harsh insults silently, and bow'd 
Respectfully to men who knew he loathed them ! 
And, when his heart was eloquent witli truth. 
And love of country, and an honest zeal 
Burn'd for expression, he could find no words 
They would not misinterpret with their lies. 
What were his many honors to him now ? 
The good half doubted, falsehood was so stronfif — 
His home was hateful with its cautious fears — 
His wife lay trembling on his very breast 
Frighted with calumny ! — And this is FAME ! 



m^ 



( 128 ) 



MELANIE. 

I. 

I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* 

And niarvell'd at the Sibyl's fane, 
When I was not what I am now. 

My life was then untouch'd of pain ; 
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair, 

My spirit freshen'd in the sky, 
And all tilings that were true and fair 

Lay closely to my loving eye, 
With nothing shadowy between — 
I was a boy of seventeen. 
Yon wondrous temple crests the rock — 

As light upon its giddy base, 
As stirless with tiie torrent's shock. 

As pure in its proportion'd grace, 
And seems a thing of air — as then, 
Afloat above this fairy glen ; 

But though mine eye will kindle still 
In looking on the shapes of art, 

The link is lost that sent the thrill, 
Like lightning instant to my heart. 

* The story is told during a walk, around the Capcatelles of TivoU. 



<^ 



vj 



li 

h 



(129) 

And thus may break, before we die, 
Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye ! 

Ten years— like yon bright valley, sown 

Alternately with weeds and flowers 

Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown. 

And still I loved the rosy Hours ; 
And if there lurk'd within my breast 

Some nerve tliat had been overstruno- 
And quiver'd in my hours of rest. 

Like bells by their own echo runo-, 
I was with Hope a masquer yet. 

And well could hide the look of sadness ; 
And, if my heart would not for<Tet, 

I knew, at least, the trick of gladness ; 
And when another sang the strain, 
I mingled in the old refrain. 

Twere idle to remember now. 

Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes. 
I bear beneath this alter'd brow 

The ashes of a thousand dreams — 
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fino-ers. 

Some color'd of Love's pencil well 

Hut none of which a shadow lino-ers 

And none whose story I could tell. 
Enough, that when I climb'd an-ain 

To Tivoli's romantic steep. 
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain, 

Whose wells I had not tasted deep ; 



'I 
® 



(®) 



( 130 ) 

And from my lips the thirst had pass'd 
For every fount save one — the sweetest — and the last. 

The last — the last ! My friends were dead, 

Or false ; my mother in her grave ; 
Above my father's honor'd head 

The sea had lock'd its hiding wave ; 
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp, 
And love had perish 'd in my clasp ; 

And still, I say, I did not slack 
My love of life, and hope of pleasure, 

But gather'd my affections back ; 
And, as the miser hugs his treasure 

When plague and ruin bid him flee, 
t closer clung to mine — my loved, lost Melanie ! 

The last of the De Brevern race. 

My sister claim'd no kinsman's care ; 
And, looking from each other's face, 

The eye stole upward unaware — 
For there was naught whereon to lean 
Each other's heart and heaven between — * 

Yet that was world enough for me ; 
And, for a brief but blessed while. 

There seem'd no care for Melanie 
If she could see her brother smile ! 

But life -with her was at the How, 
And every wave went sparkling higher. 

While mine was ebbing, fast and low, 
From the same shore of vain desire ; 



@ r^^ 






( 131 ) 

And knew I, with prophetic heart, 
That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart. 



II. 

We came to Italy. I felt 

A yearning for its sunny sky ; 
My very spirit seem'd to melt 

As swept its first warm breezes by. 
Ftom lip and cheek a chilling mist, 

From life and soul a frozen rime, 
By every breath seem'd softly kissed — 

God's blessing on its radiant clime ! 
It was an endless joy to me 

To see my sister's new delight ; 
From Venice in its golden sea 

To PoBstum in its purple light — 
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hi! is — 
■ In Vallombrosa's convent gloom — 
'Mid Terni's vale of sinn-insr rills — 

By deathless lairs in solemn Rome — 
In gay Palermo's " Golden Shell" — 
At Arethusa's hidden well — 

We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun 
That slept so lovingly on all, 

And made a home of every one — 
Ruin, and fane, and waterfall — 

And crown'd the dying day with glory 
If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story. 



(®) 



ll 



( 132 ) 

We came with Spring to Tivoli. 

My sister loved its laughing air 
And merry waters, though, for me, 
My heart was in another key ; 

And sometimes I could scarcely bear 
The mirth of their eternal play, 

And. like a child that lonc-s for home 
When weary of its holiday, 

I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. 
Perhaps — the fancy haunts me still — 
'Twas but a boding sense of ill. 

It was a morn, of such a day 

As might have dawn'd on Eden first. 
Early in the Italian May. 

Vine-leaf and flower liad newly burst, 
And on the burthen of the air 
The breath of buds came faint and rare ; 

And far in the transparent sky 
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen 

Soaring deliriously high ; 
And through the clefts of newer i^reen 

Yon waters dash'd their living pearls ; 
And with a gayer smile and bow 

Troop'd on the merry village-girls ; 
And from the Contadino's brow 

The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown. 

With air that scarcely seem'd his own ; 
And Melanie, with lips apart. 

And clasped hands upon my arm, 



(®) 



.ffe 



(133) 

Flung open her impassion'd heart, 

And bless'd life's mere and breathinc charm ; 
And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, 
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. 

In happiness and idleness 

We wander'd down yon sunny vale — 
Oh mocking eyes ! — a golden tress 

Floats back upon this summer gale ! 
A foot is tripping on the grass ! 

A laugh rings merry in mine ear ! 
I see a bounding shadow pass ! — 

O God ! my sister once was here ! 
Come with me, friend ! — We rested yon ! 

There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore ! 
She sat upon this mossy stone — 

That broken fountain running o'er 
With the same ring, like silver bells. 

She listen'd to its babbling flow. 
And said, " Perhaps the gossip tells 

Some fountain-nymph's love-story now !" 
And as her lauo;h rannj clear and wild, 
A youth — a painter — pass'd and smiled. 

He gave the greeting of the morn 
With voice that linger'd in mine ear. 

I knew him sad and gentle born 

By those two words — so calm and clear. 

His frame was slight, his forehead high 
And swept by threads of raven hair, 

II 



( 1-^4 ) 

The fire of thougiit was in his eye, 
And he was pale and marble fair, 

And Grecian chisel never caught 

The soul in those slight features wrought. 
I watch'd his graceful step of pride. 

Till hidden by yon leaning tree, . 
And loved him ere the echo died ; 

And so, alas ! did Melanie ! 



We sat and watch'd the fount awhile 

In silence, but our thoughts were one ,* 
And then arose, and, with a smile 

Of sympathy, we saunter'd on ; 
And she by sudden fits was gay. 
And then her laughter died away. 

And in this changefulness of mood, 
(Forgotten now those May-day spells.) 

We turn'd where Varro's villa stood, 
And gazing on tine Cascatelles, 

(Whose hurrying waters wild and while 

Seem madden'd as they burst to light,) 
1 chanced to turn my eyes away, 

And lo ! upon a bank, alone, 
Tiie youthful painter, sleeping, lay ! 

His pencils on the grass were thrown. 
And by his side a sketch was flung. 

And near him as I lightly crept, 

To see the picture as he slept. 
Upon his feet he lightly sprung ; 

And, gazing with a wild surprise, 



!l 

i! 



— (®) 



( 1'33 ) 

Upon the face of Melanie, 

He said— and dropp'd his earnest eyes- 
" Foi'give me ! but I drcam'd of thee !» 
Mis sketch, the while, was in my hand, 
And, for the lines I look'd to trace— 
A torrent by a palace spann'd, 
Half classic and half fairy-land— 
I only found— my sister's face ! 



III. 

Our life was changed. Another love 

In its lone woof began to twine ; 
But ah ! the golden thread was wove 

Between my sister's heart and mine f 
She who had lived for me before— 

She who had smiled for me alone— 
Would live and smile for me no more ! 

The echo to my heart was gone ! 
It seem'd to me the very skies 
Had shone through those averted eyoi^ ; 
The air had breathed of balm— the flower 

Of radiant beauty seem'd to be 

But as she loved them, hour by hour, 
And murmur'd of that love to me ! 
Oh, though it be so heavenly high 

The selfishness of earth above. 
That, of the watchers in the sky, 

He sleeps who guards a brother's love- 
Though to a sister's present weal 



(®) 



-^y 



I 



The deep devotion far tran>^?ends 
The utmost that the soul can feel 

For even its own higher ends — 
Thoun;h next to God, and more than heaven 
I-'or his own sake, he loves hei even — 

'Tis difficult to see another, 
A passing stranger of a day, 

Who never hath been friend oi bro\\or^ 
Pluck with a look her heart away--- 

To see the fair, unsullied brow, 
Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, 

Upon a stranger's bosom now, 
Who for the boon took little care — 

Who is enrich'd, he knows not wh)r 
Who suddenly hath found a treasure 

Golconda were too poor to buy. 
And he, perhaps, too cold to measure — 
(Albeit, in her forgetful dream, 
Th' unconscious idol happier seem,) 

'Tis difficult at once to crush 
The rebel mourner in the breast. 

To press the heart to earth, and hush 
Its bitter jealousy to rest — 

And difficult — the eye gets dim, 

The lip wants power — to smile on him / 

I thank sweet Mary Mother now. 

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide- 
And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow 

With sunshine that my heart belied. 



(137) 

I never spoke of wealth or race 

To one who ask'd so much from ine — 
I look'd but in my sister's face, 

And mused if she would happier be ; 
And hour by hour, and day by day, 

I loved the gentle painter more, 

And, in the same soft measure, wore 
My selfish jealousy away ; 

And I began to watch his mood. 
And feel, with her, love's trembling care, 

And bade God bless him as he woo'd 
That loving girl so fond and fair. 

And on my mind would sometimes press 



A fear that she might love him less. 



But Melanie — I little dream'd 

AVhat spells the stirring heart may move — 
Pygmalion's statue never seem'd 

More changed with life, than she with love ! 
The pearl-tint of the early dawn 

Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue — 
The meek, moss- folded bud of morn 

Flung open to the light and dew — 
The first and half-seen star of even 
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven — 

Similitudes perchance may be ! 
But these are chanires oftener seen, 

And do not imas^e half to me 
My sister's change of face and mien. 



«• 



( I'^^S ) 

'Twas written in her very air 

That Love had pass'd and enter'd there. 



IV. 

A calm and lovely paradise 

Is Italy, for rrrinds at ease. 
The sadness of its sunny skies 

Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, 

The broken column, vast and prone — 
It may be joy — it may be pain — 

Amid such wrecks to walk alone ! 
The saddest man will sadder be, 

The irentlest lover o-entler there — 
As if, whate'er the spirit's key, 

It strenij-thcn'd in that solemn air. 

The heart soon grows to mournful things, 

And Italy has not a breeze 
But comes on melancholy wings ; 

And even her majestic trees 
Stand ghostlike in the Caesars' home. 

As if their conscious roots were set 
In the old graves of giant Rome, 

And drew their sap all kingly yet ! 
And every stone your feet beneath 

Is broken from some mighty thoujjht : 
And sculptures in the dust still breathe 

Tiie fire with which their lines were wrought ; 



f®)pnn 



(139) 

And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb 
Still thunder back the echo, " Rome !" 

Yet, gaily o'er Egeria's fount 

The ivy flings its emerald veil, 
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, 

And light-sprung arclies span the dale ; 
And soft, from Caracalla's baths. 

The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, 
While climb his goats the giddy paths 

To grass-grown architrave and frieze ; 
And gracefully Albano's hill 

Curves into the horizon's line ; 
And sweetly sings that classic rill ; 

And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; 
And here, oh, many a sultry noon 
And starry eve, that happy June, 

Came Angelo and Melanie ! 
And earth for us was all in tune — 
For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart 
with me ! 



V. 

I shrink from the embitter'd close 

Of my own melancholy tale. 
'Tis long since I have waked my woes — 

And nerve and voice together fail ! 
The throb beats faster at my brow, 

My brain feels warm with startinir tears, 



a 



( 140 ) 

And I shall weep — but heed not ihou ! 

'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years ! 
The heart transfix'd — worn out with grief — 
Will turn the arrow for relief. 

The painter was a child of shame ! 

It stirr'd my pride to know it first, 
For I had question'd but his name, 

And thought, alas ! I knew the worst, 
Believing him unknown and poor. 
His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; 

A high-born Conti was his mother, 
But, though he knew one parent's face. 

He never had beheld the other, 
Nor knew his country or his race. 

The Roman hid his daughter's sluime 
Within St. Mona's convent wall, 

And gave the boy a painter's name — 
And little else to live withal ! 

And, with a noble's high desires 
Forever mounting in his heart, 

The .boy consumed with hidden fires. 
But wrought in silence at his art ; 

And sometimes at St, Mona's shrine. 
Worn thin with penance harsh and long. 

He saw his mother's form divine. 
And loved her for their mutual wrong. 
I said my pride was stirr'd — but no ! 

The voice that told its bitter tale 
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo, 



N 



'©■ 



( ^ii ) 

And, as he ceased, all deathly pale, 
lie loosed the hand of Melanie, 
And gazed so gaspingly on nne — 

The demon in my bosom died ! 
" Not thine," I said, " another's guilt ; 

1 break no hearts for silly pride ; 
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt !" 



VI. 

St. Mona's morning mass was done, 

The shrine-lamps struggled with the day ; 
And rising slowly, one by one. 

Stole the last worshippers away. 
Tlie organist play'd out the hymn, 

The incense, to St. Mary swung. 
Had mounted to the cherubim. 

Or to the pillars thinly clung ; 
And boyish chorister replaced 

The missal that was read no more, 
And closed, with half irreverent haste. 

Confessional and chancel door ; 
And as, through aisle and oriel pane. 

The sun wore round his slanting beam, 
The dying martyr stirr'd again, 

And warriors battled in its gleam ; 
And costly tomb and sculptured knight 
Show'd warm and wondrous in the lijiht. 

I have not said that Melanie 
Was radiantly fair — 



(®> 



( 142 ) 

This earth again may never see 

A loveliness so rare ! 
She glided up St. Mona's aisle 

That morning as a bride, 
And, full as was my heart the while, 

I bless'd her in my pride ! 
The fountain may not fail the less 

Whose sands are golden ore, 
And a sister for her loveliness. 

May not be loved the more ; 
But as, the fount's full heart beneath, 

Those golden sparkles shine. 
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe 

Its brightness over mine ! 

St. Mona has a chapel dim 

Within the altar's fretted pale, 
Where faintly comes the swelling hymn. 

And dies, half lost, the anthem's wail. 
And here, in twilight meet for prayer, 

A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine, 
And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair, 

Looks down with sweetness half divine. 
And here St. Mona's nuns alway 
Through latticed bars are seen to pray. 

Ave and sacrament were o'er, 

And Angelo and Melanie 
Still knelt the holy shrine before ; 

But ])rayer that morn was not for me ! 



■— (®) 



( 143 ) 

My heart was lock'd ! The lip might stir, 

The frame might agonize — and yet, 
Oh God ! I could not pray for her ! 
A seal upon my brow was set — 
My brow was hot — my brain oppress'd — 
And fiends seem'd muttering round, " Your bridal is 
unblest !" 

With forehead to the lattice laid. 

And thin, white fingers straining through, 
A nun the while had softly pray'd. 

Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew ! 
Eacli faltering word — each mournful tone — 

Each pleading cadence, half suppress'd — 
Such music had its like alone 

On lips that stole it at her breast ! 
And ere the orison was done 
I loved the mother as the son ! 

And now, the marriage vows to hear, 

The nun unveil'd her brow — 
When, sudden, to my startled ear. 
There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear, 

" Be Brevern / is it iliou /" 
The priest let fall the golden ring. 

The bridegroom stood aghast. 
While, like some weird and frantic thing, 

The nun was muttering fast ; 
And as, in dread, 1 nearer drew, 
She thrust her arms the lattice through. 



--{®i 



( 144 ) 

And held me to her straining view — 

But suddenly begun 
To steal upon her brain a light 
That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight. 
And, with a naouth all ashy white, 

She shriek'd, " // is Jiis son f 
The hridegroom is thy blood — thy hrother ! 
Rodolph de Brevem wrong'' d his mother /" 

And, as that doom of love was heard, 
My sister sunk — and died — without a sign or word ! 

1 shed no tear for her. She died 

With her last sunshine in her eyes. 
Earth held for her no joy beside 

The hope just shatter'd — and she lies 
In a green nook of yonder dell ; 

And near her, in a newer bed, 
Her lover — brother — sleeps as well ! 

Peace to the broken-hearted dead ! 



(145) 



LORD rVON AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

" Dost thou despise 
A love like this ? A lady should not scorn 
One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be." 

LORD IVON. 

How beautiful it is ! Come here, my daughter ! 
Is't not a face of most bewildering brightness ? 

ISIDORE. 

The features are all fair, sir, but so cold — 
I could not love such beauty ! 

LORD I VON. 

Yet, e'en so 
Look'd thy lost mother, Isidore ! Her brow 
Lofty like this — her lips thus delicate. 
Yet icy cold in their slight vermeil threads — 
Her neck thus queenly, and the sweeping curve 
Thus matchless, from the small and " pearl round ear" 
To the o'er-polish'd shoulder. Never swan 
Dream'd on the water with a grace so calm ! 

ISIDORE. 

And was she proud, sir ? 

IS 



( 146 ) 

LORD IVON. 

Or I had not loved her. 

ISIDORE. 

Then runs my lesson wrong. 1 ever read 
Pride was unlovely. 

LORD IVON. 

Dost thou prate already 
Of books, my little one ? Nay, then, 'tis time 
That a sad tale were told thee. Is thy bird 
Fed for the day ? Canst thou forget the rein 
Of thy beloved Arabian for an hour, 
And, the first time in all thy sunny life. 
Take sadness to thy heart ? Wilt listen, sweet ? 

ISIDORE. 

Hang I not ever on thy lips, dear father ? 

LORD IVON. 

As thou didst enter. I was musing here 
Upon this picture. 'Tis the face of one 
I never knew ; but, for its glorious pride, 
I bought it of the painter. There has hung 
Ever the cunning curse upon my soul 
To love this look in woman. Not the flower 
Of all Arcadia, in the Age of Gold, 
Looked she a shepherdess, would be to me 
More than the birds are. As th' astroloorer 
Worships the half-seen star that in its sphere 



'^ 



m. 



( 14T ) 

Dreams not of him, and tramples on the lily 
That flings, unask'd, its fragrance in his way, 
Yet both (as are the high-born and the low) 
Wrouglit of the same fine Hand — so, daringly, 
Flew my boy-hopes beyond me. You are here 
In a brave palace, Isidore ! The gem 
That sparkles in your hair imprisons light 
Drunk in the flaming Orient ; and gold 
Waits on the bidding of those girlish lips 
In measure that Aladdin never knew. 
Yet was I — lowly born ! 

ISIDORE. 

Lord Ivon ! 

LORD IVON. 

Ay, 

You wonder ; but I tell you that the lord 

Of this tall palace was a peasant's child ! 

And, looking sometimes on his fair domain, 

Thy sire bethinks him of a sickly boy, 

Nursed by his mother on a mountain side, 

His only wealth a book of poetry. 

With which he daily crept into the sun, 

To cheat sharp pains with the bewildering dream 

Of beauty he had* only read of there. 

ISIDORE. 

Have you the volume still, sir ? 



© 



(143) 

LORD IVON. 

'Twas the gift 
Of a poor scholar wandering in the hills, 
Who pitied my sick idleness. I fed 
My inmost soul upon the witching rhyme — 
A silly tale of a low minstrel boy, 
Who broke his heart in singing at a bridal. 

ISIDORE. 

Loved he the lady, sir ? 

LORD IVON. 

So ran the tale. 
How well I do remember it ! 

ISIDORE. 

Alas! 
Poor youth ! 

LORD IVON. 

I never thought to pity him. 
The bride was a duke's sister ; and I mused 
Upon the wonder of his daring love. 
Till my heart changed within me. I became 
Restless and sad ; and in my sleep I saw 
Beautiful dames all scornfully go by ; 
And one o'er-weary morn I crept away 
Into the glen, and, flung upon a rock, 
Over a torrent whose swift, giddy waters 
FillM me with energy, I swore my soul 



_ — . ^J^ 

( 149 ) 

To better that false vision, if there were 
Manhood or fire within my wretched frame. 
I turn'd me homeward with the sunset hour, 
Changed — for the thought had conquer'd even (h'sease ; 
And my poor mother check'd her busy wheel 
To wonder at the step with which I came. 

Oh, heavens ! that soft and dewy April eve, . 
When, in a minstrel's garb, but with a heart 
As lofty as the marble shafts uprear'd 
Beneath the stately portico, I stood 
At this same palace door ! 

ISIDORE. 

Our own ! and you 
A. minstrel boy ! 

LORD IVON. 

Yes — I had wander'd far 
Since 1 shook ofT my sickness in the hills, 
And, with some cunning on the lute, had learn'd 
A subtler lesson than humility 
In the quick school of want. A menial stood 
By the Egyptian sphinx ; and when I came 
And pray'd to sing beneath the balcony 
A song of love for a fair lady's ear, 
He insolently bade me to begone. 
Listening not, I swept my fingers o'er 
The strings in prelude, when the base-born slave 
Struck me ! 

13* 



-m 



( 150 ) 

ISIDORE. 

Impossible ! 

LORD IVON. 

I dash'd my lute 
Into his face, and o'er the threshold flew ; 
And threading rapidly the lofty rooms, 
Sought vainly for his master. Suddenly 
A wing rush'd o'er me, and a radiant girl, 
Young as myself, but fairer than the dream 
Of my most wild imagining, sprang forth. 
Chasing a dove, that, 'wilder'd with pursuit, 
Dropp'd breathless on my bosom. 



ISIDORE. 

Nay, dear fatlier ! 



Was't so indeed ? 



LORD IVON. 

I thank'd my blessed star ! 
And, as the fair, transcendent creature stood 
Silent with wonder, I resign 'd the bird 
To her white hands : and, with a rapid thought, 
And lips already eloquent of love, 
Turn'd the strann;e chance to a similitude 
Of my own story. Her slight, haughty lip 
Curl'd at the warm recital of my wrong. 
And on the ivory oval of her cheek 
The rose flush'd outward with a deeper red ; 
And from that hour the minstrel was at home. 



m, 



( i--^i ) 

And horse and liound were his, and none might cross 
The minion of the noble Lady Clare. 
Art weary of my tale 1 

ISIDORE. 

Dear father ! 

LORD IVON. 

Well ! 
A summer, and a winter, and a spring. 
Went over me like brief and noteless hours. 
Forever at the side of one who grew 
With every morn more beautiful ; the slave, 
Willing and quick, of every idle whim ; 
Singing for no one's bidding but her own. 
And then a song from my own passionate heart, 
Sung with a lip of fire, but ever named 
As an old rhyme that I had chanced to hoar ; 
Riding beside her, sleeping at her door. 
Doing her maddest bidding at the risk 
Of life — what marvel if at last I iirew 
Presumptuous ? 

A messenger one morn 
Spurr'd through the gate—" A revel at the court ! 
And many minstrels, come from many lands. 
Will try their harps in presence of the king ; 
And 'tis the royal pleasure that my lord 
Come with the young and lovely Lady Clare, 



®- 



( l''-2 ) 

Robed as the queen of Faery, wlio sliall ci'owii 
The victor with his bays." 

Pass over all 
To that bewildering day. She sat enthroned 
Amid the court ; and never twilight star 
Sprang with such sweet surprise upon the eye, 
As she with her rare beauty on the gaze 
Of the gay multitude. The minstrels changed 
Their studied songs, and chose her for a theme ; 
And ever at the pause all eyes upturn'd 
And fed upon her loveliness. 

The last 
Long lay was ended, and the silent crowd 
Waited the king's award — when suddenly 
The sharp strings of a lyre were swept without, 
And a clear voice claim'd hearing for a bard 
Belated on his journey. Mask'd, and clad 
In a long stole, the herald led me in. 
A thousand eyes were on me : but I saw 
The new-throned queen, in her high place, alone ; 
And, kneeling at her feet, I press'd my brow 
Upon her footstool, till the images 
Of my past hours rush'd thick upon my brain ; 
Then, rising hastily, 1 struck my lyre ; 
And, in a story woven of my own, 
I so did paint her in her loveliness — - 
Pouring my heart all out upon the lines 
I knew too faithfully, and lavishing 



C®« --~ 



( 153 ) 

The hoarded fire of a whole aire of love 
Upon each passionate woixl, that, as T snnk 
Exhausted at the close, the ravish 'd crowd 
Flung gold and flowers on my still quivering lyre ; 
And the moved monarch in his gladness swore 
There was no boon beneath his kingly crown 
Too high for such a minstrel ! 

Did my star 
Speak in my fainting ear ? Heard I the kin^ ? 
Or did the audible pulses of my heart 
Seem to me so articulate ? I rose, 
And tore my mask away ; and, as the stole 
Dropp'd from my shoulders, I glanced hurriedly 
A look upon the face of Lady Clare. 
It was enough ! I saw that she was changed — 
That a brief hour had chill'd the open child 
To calculating woman — that she read 
With cold displeasure my o'er-daring thought ; 
And on that brow, to me as legible 
As stars to the rapt Arab, I could trace 
The scorn that wailed on me ! Sick of life, 
Yet, even then, with a half- rallied hope 
Prompting my faltering tongue, I blindly knelt,- 
And claim'd the king's fair promise — 

ISIDORE. 

For the hand 
Of Lady Clare ? 



(2)5 



. (154) 

LORD IVON. 

No, sweet one — for a sword. 

ISIDORE. 

You surely spoke to her ? 

LORD IVON. 

I saw her face 
No more for years. I went unto the wars ; 
And when again I sought that palace door, 
A glory heralded the minstrel hoy 
That monarchs might have -envied. 

ISIDORE. 

Was she there ? 

LORD IVON. 

Yes — and, O God ! how beautiful ! The last, 
The ripest seal of loveliness, was set 
Upon her form ; and the all-glorious pride 
That I had worshipp'd on her girlish lip. 
When her scared dove fled to me, was matured 
Into a queenly grace ; and nobleness 
Was bound like a tiara to hnr brow, 
And every motion breathed of it. There lived 
Nothing on earth so ravishingly fair. 

ISIDORE. 

And you still loved her ? 



:tr{(®) 



( 1'^'^ ) 

LORD IVON. 

I had perill'd life 
In every shape — had battled on the sea, 
And burnt upon the desert, and outgone 
Spirits most mad for glory, with this one 
O'ermastering hope upon me. Honor, fame, 
Gold, even, were as dust beneath my feet ; 
And war was my disgust, though I had souglit 
Its horrors like a bloodhound — for her praise. 
My life was drunk up with the love of her. 

ISIDORE. 

And now she scorn'd you not ? 

LORD IVON. 

Worse, Isidore ! 
She pitied me ! I did not need a voice 
To tell my love. She knew her sometime minion- 
And felt that she should never be adored 
With such idolatry as his, and sigh'd 
That hearts so true beat not in palaces — 
But I was poor, with all my bright renown, 
And lowly born ; and she — the Lady Clare ! 

ISIDORE. 

She could not tell you this ? 



LORD IVON. 

She broke my heart 



-\^ 



( 156 ) 

As kindly as the fisher hooks the worm — 
Pitying me the while ! 

ISIDOKE. 

And voii — 

LORD I VON. 

Lived on f 
But the remembrance irks me, and my throat 
Chokes with the utterance ! 

ISIDORE. 

Dear father ! 

LORD I VON. 

Nay- 
Thanks to sweet Mary Mother, it is past ; 
And in this world I shall have no more need 
To speak of it. 

ISIDORE. 

But there were brighter days 
In store. My mother and this palace — 

LORD I VON. 

You outrun 
My tale, dear Isidore ! But 'tis as well. 
I would not linijer on it. 



o 



Twenty years 
From this heart-broken hour, 1 stood again, 
An old man and a stranger, at the door 



( 157 ) 

Of this same palace. I had been a slave 

For gold that time ! My star had wrought with me I 

And I was richer than the wizard kini^ 

Throned in the mines of Ind. I could not look 

On my innumerable gems, the glare 

Pain'd so my sun-struck eyes ! My gold was countless. 

ISIDORE. 

And Lady Clare ? 

LORD lYON. 

1 met upon the threshold 
ITer very self — all youth, all loveliness — 
So like the fresh-kept picture in my brain, 
That for a moment I forgot all else, 
And stagger'd back and wept. She pass'd me by 
With a cold look — 

ISIDORE. 

Oh ! not the Lady Clare ! 

LORD IVo^^ 

Her daughter, yet herself! But what a cliange 
Waited me here I My thin and grizzled locks 
Were fairer now than the young minstrel's curls — 
My sun-burnt visage and contracted eye 
Tlian the gay soldier with liis gallant mien ! 
My words were wit, my looks interpreted ; 
And Lady Clare — I tell you. Lady Clare 
Loan'd fondly — fondly ! on my wasted arm. 

14 



( 1-^8 ) 

God ! how changed my nature with all this ! 
I, that had been all love and tenderness — 
The truest and most gentle heart, till now. 
That ever beat — grew suddenly a devil ! 

1 bought me lands, and titles, and received 
Men's homage with a smooth hypocrisy ; 
And — you will scarce believe me, Isidore — 

I suffer'd them to wile their peerless daughter. 
The image and the pride of Lady Clare, 
To wed me ! 

ISIDORE. 

Sir ! you did not ! 

LORD I VON. 

Ay ! I saw 
Th' indignant anger when her motlier first 
Broke the repulsive wish, and the degrees 
Of shuddering reluctance as her mind 
Admitted the intoxicating tales 
Of wealth unlimited. And when she look'd 
On my age-stricken features, and my form. 
Wasted before its time, and turn'd away 
To hide from me her tears, her very mother 
Whisper'd the cursed comfort in her ear 
That made her what she is ! 

ISIDORE. 

You could not wed her, 
Knowing all this ! 



( 1-^9 ) 

LORD IVON. 

I felt that I had lost 
My life else. I had wrung, for forty years. 
My frame to its last withers ; I had (lung 
My boyliood's fire away — the energy 

« 

Of a most sinless youth — the toil, and fret, 
And agony of manhood. I had dared, 
Fought, suffer'd, slaved — and never for an hour 
Forgot or swerved from my resolve ; and now — 
With the delirious draught upon my lips — 
Dash down the cup ! 

ISIDORE. 

Yet she had never wrong'd you ! 

LORD IVON. 

Thou'rt pleading for thy mother, my sweet child ! 
And angels hear thee. But, if she was wrong'd, 
The sin be on the pride that sells its blood 
Coldly and only for this damning gold. 
Had I not ofler'd youth first ? Came 1 not. 
With my hands brimm'd with glory, to buy love — 
And was I not denied ? 

ISIDORE. 

Yet, dearest father, 
They forced her not to wed ? 

LORD IVON. 

I call'd her back 



( 1^0 ) 

Myself from the church threshold, and, before 

Her mother and her kinsmen, bade her swear 

It was her own free choice to marry me. 

I show'd her my shrunk hand, and bade her think 

If that was like a biidegroom, and beware 

Of perjuring her chaste and spotless soul, 

If now she loved me not. 

ISIDORE. 

What said she, sir ? 

LORD IVON. 

Oh ! they had made her even as themselves ; 
And her young heart was colder than the slab 
Unsunn'd beneath Pentelicus. She press'd 
My wither'd fingers in her dewy clasp, 
And smiled up in my face, and chid " my lord" 
For his wild fancies, and led on ! 



ISIDORE. 



And no 



Misgiving at the altar ? 



LORD IVON. 

None ! She swore 
To love and cherish me till death should part us. 
With a voice clear as mine. 



ISIDORE. 

And kept it, father ! 



In mercy tell me so ! 



© 



( 161 ) 

LORD I VON. 

She lives, my daughter ! 



4c 



Long ere my babe was born, my pride had ebb'd, 

And let my heart down to its better founts 

Of tenderness. I had no friends — not one ! 

My love gush'd to my wife. I rack'd my brain 

To find her a new pleasure every hour — 

Yet not with me — I fear'd to haunt her eye ! 

Only at night, when she was slumbering 

In all her beauty, I would put away 

The curtains till the pale night-lamp shone on her. 

And watch her through my tears. 

One night her lips 
Parted as I gazed on them, and the name 
Of a young noble, who had been my guest. 
Stole forth in broken murmurs. I let fall 
The curtains silently, and left her there 
To slumber and dream on ; and gliding forth 
Upon the terrace, knelt to my pale star. 
And swore, that if it pleased the God of liglit 
To let me look upon the unborn child 
Lying beneath her heart, I would but press 
One kiss upon its lips, and take away 
My life — that was a blight upon her years. 

ISIDORE. 

I was that child ! 



( 1«2 ) 

LORD IVOX. 

Yes — and I lieard the cry 
or thy small " piping mouth" as 'twere a call 
From. my remembering star. I waited only 
Thy mother's strength to bear the common shock 
Of death within the doors. She rose at last, 
And, oh ! so sweetly pale ! And thou, my child ! 
My heart misgave me as I look'd upon thee ; 
But he was ever at her side whose name 
She murmur'd in her sleep ; and, lingering on 
To drink a little of thy sweetness more 
Before I died, I watch'd their stolen love 
As she had been my daughter, with a pure, 
Passionless joy that I should leave her soon 
To love him as she would. 1 know not how 
To tell thee more. ****:*' 

* * * Come, sM'Cct ! she is not worthy 
Of tears like thine and mine j * * --* 

***** She fled and left me 
The very night ! The poison was prepared — 
And she had been a widow with the morn 
Rich as Golconda. As the midnight chimed, 
My star rose. Gazing on its mounting orb, 
I raised the chalice — but a weakness came 
Over my heart ; and, taking up the lamp, 
I glided to her chamber, and removed 
The curtains for a last, a parting look 
Upon my child. ***** 



-B 



(163) 

• 

* * * * Had she but taken thee, 
I could have felt she had a mother's heart, 
And drain'd the chalice still. I could not leave 
My babe alone in such a heartless world ! 

ISIDORE. 

Thank God ! Thank God ! 



TO ERMENGARDE. 

I KNOW not if the sunshine waste — 

The world is dark since thou art gone ! 
Tl'ie hours are, oh ! so leaden-paced ! 

The birds sing, and the stars float on. 
But sini; not well, and look not fair — 
A weight is in the summer air, 

And sadness in the sight of flowers ; 
And if I go where others smile. 

Their love but makes me think of ours. 
And heavier gets my heart the while. 
Like one upon a desert isle, 

1 languish of the weary hours ; 
I never thought a life could be 
So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee ! 

I sit and watch the summer sky. 

There comes a cloud through heaven alone ; 
A thousand stars are shininijc niirh — 



(104) 

• 

It feels no light, but darkles on ! 
Yet now it nears the lovelier moon ; 

And, flushing through its fringe of snow, 
There steals a rosier dye, and soon 

Its bosom is one fiery glow ! 
The Queen of Light within it lies ! 

Yet mark how lovers meet to part ! 
The cloud already onward flies. 

And shadows sink into its heart, 
And (dost thou see them where thou art ?) 

Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes ! 
Its light, like mine, is seen no more, 
And, like my own, its heart seems darker than befor.' ! 

Where press this hour those fairy feet ? 

Where look this hour those eyes of blue ? 
What music in thine ear is sweet ? 

Wliat odor breathes thy lattice througli ? 
What word is on thy lip ? what tone — 
What look — replying to thine own ? 
Thy steps along the Danube stray — 

Alas ! it seeks an orient sea ! 
Thou wouldst not seem so far away 

Flow'd but its waters back to me ! 
I bless the slowly coming moon 

Because its eye look'd late in thine ! 
I envy the west wind of June 

Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine ; 
The flower I press upon my brow 
Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now ! 






jr®)\ — j(®jl 



(105) 



THE CONFESSIONAL. 

• When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, 
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold — 
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old — 
Remember me — remember me — 
I passionately pray of thee !"♦ 

Ladv E. S. Worti.ev. 

I THOUGHT of thee — I thought of thee, 

On ocean many a weary night — 
^Vhen heaved the long and sullen sea, 

With only waves and stars in sight.- 
We stole along hy isles of balm, 

We furl'd before the coming gale, 
We slept amid the breathless calm. 

We flew beneath the straining sail- — 
But thou wert lost for years to me, 
And, day and night, I thought of thee ! 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In France — amid the gay saloon. 
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be 

Are many as the leaves in June — 
Where life is love, and even the air 

Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, 
And song and dance and music are 

With one warm meaninf^ only frauajht — 



-(®) 



( lOG ) 

My half-snared heart broke lightly free, 
And, with a blush, I thought of thee ! 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Florence, — where the fiery hearts 
Of Italy are breathed away 

In wonders of the deathless arts ; 
Where strays the Contadina down 

Val d'Arno.with a song of old ; 
Where clime and woman seldom frown. 

And life runs over sands of gold ; 
I stray'd to lone Fiesole 
On many an eve, and thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

In Rome, — when on the Palatine 
Night left the Caesars' palace free 

To Time's forgetful foot and mine ; 
Or, on the Coliseum's wall. 

When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone. 
Reclining, with a thought of all 

That o'er this scene has come and c^one — 
The shades of Rome would start and flee 
Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Vallombrosa's holy shade. 
Where nobles born the friars be, 

, By life's rude changes humbler made. 
Here Milton framed liis Paradise : 



# 



( 167 ) 

1 slept within his very cell ; 
And, as I closed my weary eyes, 

I thought the cowl would fit me well — 
Tlie cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, 
Of heart's-ease— but I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Venice, — on a night in June ; 
When, through the city of the sea, 

Like dust of silver slept the moon. 
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier, 

And, as the black barks glided by, 
The water to my leaning ear 

Bore back the lover's passing sigh — 
It was no place alone to be — 
1 thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In the Ionian isles — when straying 
With wise Ulysses by the sea — 

Old Homer's songs around me playing ; 
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique. 

That o'er the star-lit waters flew, 
I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, 

Who sung the song that Sappho knew — 
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea, 
All vanish'd — as I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 
In Greece — when rose the Parthenon 



(168) 

Majestic o'er the Egean sea, 

And heroes with it, one by one ; 

When, in the grove of Academe, 
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd 

Discussing Plato's mystic theme, 
I lay at noontide in the shade — 

The Egean wind, the whispering tree, 

Had voices — and I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Asia — on the Dardanelles ; 
Where swiftly as the waters flee. 

Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
And, seated by the marble tank 

Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, 
(The fount where peerless Helen drank, 

And Venus laved her locks of gold,)* 
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see. 
Yet even here — I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, 

All palace-lined from sea to sea ; 
And ever on its shores the daughters 

Of the delicious East are seen. 

Printing the brink with slipper'd feet. 

And oh, the snowy folds between. 



* In the Scamander, — before contending for the prize of beauty on Mount 
Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near the walls of Troy. 



( 1G9 ) 

What eyes of heaven your glances meet I 
Peris of light no fairer be — 
Yet — in Stamboul — I thought of thee. 

I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee, 

Through chang^ that teaches to forget ; 
Thy face looks up from every sea, 

In every star thine eyes are set. 
Though roving beneath Orient skies, 

Whose golden beauty breathes of rest, 
I envy every bird that flies 

Into the far and clouded West : 
I think of thee — I think of thee ! 
Oh, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ? 



FLORENCE GRAY. 

I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon, 
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep 
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles 
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung 
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea. 
I had climb'd up the Acropolis at morn. 
And hours had fled, as time will in a dream, 
Amidst its deathless ruins — for the air 

IS 



-A® 



-^ 



(170) 

Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, 

And they walk with you ! As it sultrier grew, 

I laid me down within a shadow deep 

Of a tall column of the Parthenon, 

And, in an absent idleness of thought, 

I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base. 

Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there ? 

The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome ! 

I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night 

Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon, 

Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent, 

Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose 

And silently stole forth, and by the brink 

Of " gold Pactolus," where his waters bathe 

The bases of Cybele's columns fair, 

I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood 

I mused upon the storied past awhile. 

Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye, 

Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings 

Sleeping around me — Crcesus, who had heap'd 

Within that mouldei-ing portico his gold. 

And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring 

Beneath yon swelling tumulus — and then 

I loiter'd up the valley to a small 

And humbler ruin, where the undefiled* 



* " Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their 
garments : and they shall walk with me in white : for they are worthy." — 
Revelation iii. 4. 



(®> 



( ^^'^1 ) 

Of the Apocalypse their garments kept 
Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe 
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye 
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood 
" The angel of the church of Sardis" still ! 
And I again pass'd inward, and as dawn 
Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down 
Weary and sad beside the river's brink, 
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn. 
Wrote with my finger in the " golden sands." 
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there ? 
The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome / 

The dust is old upon my '' sandal-shoon," 
And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved 
From wild America to Bosphor's waters, 
And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines 
Of beauty ; and the painter's art, to me. 
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue. 
And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, 
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored 
My memory with thoughts that can allay 
Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim, 
And I am overladen in my years, 
Minister to me. But when wearily 
The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes 
Open but seeing not, and senses all 
Lying awake within their chambers dim, 
Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear- 
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem. 



m)==^==:^=:= ^ -JC^. 



^^ 



(172) 

Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair ? 
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! 



THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 

'TwAS a summery day in the last of May — 

Pleasant in sun or shade ; 
And the hours went by, as the poets say. 
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way ; 
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway — 

And the Fountain gaily play'd. 

The Fountain play'd right merrily, 

And the world look'd bright and gay ; 

And a youth went by, with a restless eye, 

Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry ; 

And he pray'd to God that he might die — 
And the Fountain play'd away. 

Uprose the spray like a diamond throne. 

And the drops like music rang — 
And of those who marvell'd how it shone, 
Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone ; 
And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan^ — 

And the Fountain sweetly sang. 



=-@ 



(173) 

And a rainbow spann'd it changefully, 

Like a bright ring broke in twain ; 
And the pale, fair girl, who stopp'd to see, 
Was sick with the pangs of poverty — 
And from hunger to guilt she chose to flee 

As the rainbow smiled again. 

With as fair a ray, on another day, 

The morning will have shone ; 
And as little mark'd, in bright Broadway, 
A hearse will glide amid busy and gay, 
And the bard who sings will have pass'd away — 

And the Fountain will play on ! 



" CHAMBER SCENE." 
[An exquisite picture in the studio of. a young artist at Rome ] 

She rose from her untroubled sleep, 

And put away her soft brown hair, 
And, in a tone as low and deep 

As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer- 
Her snow-white hands together press'd. 

Her blue eyes shelter'd in the lid, 
The folded linen on her breast 

Just swelling with the charms it hid ; 
And from her long and flowing dress 

16* 



(174) 

Escaped a bare and slender foot, 
Whose shape upon the earth did press 

Like a new snow-flake, white and "mute ;" 
And there, from slumber pure and warm, 

Like a young spirit fresh from heaven, 
She bow'd her slight and graceful form, 

And humbly pray'd to be forgiven. 

Oh God ! if souls unsoil'd as these 
Need daily mercy from thy throne — 

If she upon her bended knees — 
Our loveliest and our purest one — 

Slie, with a face so clear and bright 

We deem her some stray child of light — 
[^ she, with those soft eyes in tears. 
Day after day in her first years, 

Must kneel and pray for grace from thee — 

Wliat far, far deeper need have we ? 

^ How hardly, if she win not heaven, 
Will our wild errors be forgiven ! 



i: 
I 



TO A STOLEN RING. 



On for thy history now ! Hadst thou a tongue 
To whisper of thy secrets, I could lay 
Upon thy jewell'd tracery mine ear. 



((a) 



( 1^5 ) 

And dream myself in heaven. Thou hast been worn 

In that fair creature's pride, and thou hast felt 

The bounding of the haughtiest blood that e'er 

Sprang from the heart of woman ; and thy gold 

Has lain upon her forehead in the hour 

Of sadness, when the weary thoughts came fast, 

And life was but a bitterness with all 

Its vividness and beauty. She has gazed 

In her fair girlhood on thy snowy pearls, 

And mused away the hours, and she has bent 

On thee the downcast radiance of her eye 

When a deep tone was eloquent in her ear. 

And thou hast lain upon her cheek, and press'd 

Back on her heart its beatings, and put by 

From her vein'd temples the luxuriant curls ; 

And in her peaceful sleep, when she has lain 

In her unconscious beauty, and the dreams 

Of her high heart came goldenly and soft, 

Thou hast been there unchidden, and hast felt 

The swelling of the clear transparent veins 

As the rich blood rush'd through them, warm and fast. 

I am impatient as I gaze on thee, 
Tliou inarticulate jewel ! Thou hast heard 
With thy dull ear such music ! — the low tone 
Of a young sister's tenderness, when night 
Hath folded them together like one flower — 
The sudden snatch of a remember'd son^ 
Warbled capriciously — the careless word 
Lightly betraying the inaudible tliought 



(176) 

Working within the heart ; and, more than all, 

Thou hast been lifted v. hen tlie fervent prayer 

For a loved mother, or the sleeping one 

Lying beside her, trembled on her lip, 

And the warm tear that from her eye stole out 

As the soft lash fell over it, has lain 

Amid thy shining jewels like a star. 



TO HER WHO HAS HOPES FOR ME. 

Oh stern, yet lovely monitress ! 

Thine eye should be of colder hue, 
And on thy neck a paler tress 

Should toy among those veins of blue ! 

For thou art to thy mission true — 
An angel clad in human guise — 
But sinners sometimes have such eyes, 

And braid for love such tresses too ; 
And, while thou talk'st to me of heaven, 
I sigh that thou hast not a sin to be forgiven ! 

Night comes, with love upon the breeze, 
And the calm clock strikes, stilly, "ten. 
I start to hear it beat, for then 

I know that thou art on thy knees — 
And, at that hour, where'er thou bo, 



}i 



[&)) — 



( 1 '7 ) 

Ascends to heaven a prayer for me ! 

My heart drops to its bended knee — 
Tiie mirth upon my lip is dumb — 
Yet, as a thought of heaven would come, 

There glides, before it, one of thee — 
Thou, in thy white dress, kneeling there ! — 
I fear I could leave heaven to see thee at ihy prayer ! 

I follow up the sacred aisle, 

Thy light s*tep on the Sabbath-day, 
And — as perhaps thou pray'st the while — 

My light thoughts pass away ! 
As swells in air the holy hymn. 
My breath comes quick, my eyes are dim, 

And through my tears I pray ! 
I do not think my heart is stone — 
But, while for heaven it beats alone — 

In heaven would willing slay — 
One rustle of thy snow-white gown 

Sends all my thoughts astray ! 
The preaching dies upon my ear — 
What " is the better world" when thy dark eyes are here I 

Yet pray ! my years have been but few — 
And many a wile the tempter weaves, 
And many a saint the sinner grieves 
Ere Mercy brings him through ! 
But oh, when Mercy sits serene 
And strives to bend to me. 
Pray, that the cloud which comes between 



(178) 

May less resemble thee ! 
The world that would my soul beguile 
Tints all its roses with thy smile ! 

In heaven 'twere well to be ! 
But, — to desire that blessed shore — 
Oh lady ! thy dark eyes must first have gone before ! 



THE DEATH OF HARRISON. 

What ! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun ! 
Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal \m had won ! 
Are there spirits more blest than the " Planet of Even," 
Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven — 
No waning of fire, no quenching of ray, 
But rising, still rising, when passing away ? 
Farewell, gallant eagle ! thou'rt buried in light ! 
God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night ! 

'Death ! Death in the White House ! Ah, never before, 
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor ! 
He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall — 
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall — 
The youth in his birth-place, the old man at lionie, 
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb ; — 
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here — 
In a churchyard far off stands his beckoning bier ! 



M 



( I'^o ) 

He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high — 
As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky — 
The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore — 
Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er — 
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story — 
He went with his old stride — from glory to glory ! 

Lay his sword on his breast ! There's no spot on its 

blade 
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade ! 
'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call — 
It was stay'd with sweet mercy when " glory" was all ! 
As calm in the council as gallant in war, 
He fought for its country, and not its " hurrah !" 
In the path of the hero with pity he trod — 
Let him pass — with his sword — to the presence of God ! 

What more ? Shall we on with his ashes ? Yet, stay ! 
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day ! 
At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land — 
The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his 

hand. 
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard ? 
No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword — 
No trappings — no horses ? — what had he, but now ? 
On! — on with his ashes !— he- left but his plough! 

Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day 

Is the nation — whose father is taken away ! 

Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan at his knell — 



( 180 ) 

He was " lover and friend" to his country, as well ! 
For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim, 
Let us weeo, in our darkness — but weep not for him ! 
Not for him — who, departing, leaves millions in tears ! 
Not for him — who has died full of honor and years ! 
Not for him — who ascended Fame's ladder so high 
From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky ! 



« SHE WAS NOT THERE.'* 

" The bird. 
Let loose, to his far nest will flee. 

And love, though breathed but on a word. 
Will find thee, over land and sea." 

'Tis midnight deep— I came but now 

From the close air of lighted halls ; 
And while I hold my aching brow 

I gaze upon my dim-lit walls ; 
And, feeling here that I am free 

To wear the look that suits my mood, 
And let my thoughts flow back to thee, 

I bless my tranquil solitude. 
And bidding all thoughts else begone, 
I muse upon thy love alone. 
Yet was the music sweet to-night, 



( ISl ) 

And fragrant odors fill'd the air, 
And flowers were drooping in the light, 

And lovely women wander'd there ; 
And fruits and wines with lavish waste 

Were on the marble tables piled. 
And all that tempts the eye and taste, 

And sets the haggard pulses wild. 
And wins from care, and deadens sadness, 
Were there — but yet I felt no gladness. 

I thought of thee — I thouglu of thee — 

Each cunning change the music play'd, 
Eacli fragrant breath that stole to mc, 

My wandering thought more truant made. 
The lovely women pass'd me by. 

The wit fell pointless on mine ear, 
I look'd on all with vacant eye, 

I did not see — I did not hear ! 
The skill'd musician's master-tone 

Was sweet — thy voice were sweeter far ! 
They were soft eyes the lamps shone on — 

The eyes I worship gentler are ! 
The halls were broad, the mirrors tall. 

With silver lamps and costly wine — 
I only thought how poor was all 

To one low tone from lips like ihine — 
I only felt how well forgot 
W^ere all the stars look on — and thy sweet eyes do not ! 



16 



(T^ 



%: 



( 182 ) 



1 



FAIL ME NOT THOU ! 

" Oh, by that little word 
How many thoughts are stirr'd ! — 
The last, the last, the last !" 

The star may but a meteor be, 

That breaks upon the stormy night ; 
And I may err, believing thee 

A spark of heaven's own changeless light ! 
But if on earth beams aught so fair. 

It seems, of all the lights that shine, 
Serenest in its truth, 'tis there. 

Burning in those soft eyes of thine. 
Yet lono-.watch'd stars from heaven have rush'd, 

And long-loved friends have dropp'd away, 
And mine — my very heart have crush'd ! 

And I ^ave hoped this many a day. 
It lived no more for love or pain ! 
But thou hast stirr'd its depths again, 

And, to its dull, out-wearied ear. 
Thy voice of melody has crept, 

In tones it cannot choose but hear ; 
And now I feel it only slept. 

And know, at even thy lightest smile. 

It gather'd fire and strength the while. 

Fail me not thou ! This feeling past. 
My heart would never rouse again. 



/'- 



y 



^==(F. 

( 183 ) 

Thou art the brightest— but the last ! 

And if this trust, this love be vain 

If thou, all peerless as thou art, 

Be not less fair than true of heart — 

My loves are o'er- ! The sun will shine 
Upon no grave so hush'd as this dark breast of mine. 



SPIRIT-WHISPERS. 
(Spirit-whisper in the poeVs ear — morwing.) 

Wake ! poet, wake ! — the morn has burst 
Through gates of stars and dew, 

And, wing'd by prayer since evening nursed. 

Has fled to kiss the steeples first. 
And now stoops low to you ! 

Oh, poet of the loving eye. 

For you is dress 'd this morning sky I 

{Second lohisper — noon.) 
Oh, poet of the pen enchanted ! 

A lady sits beneath a tree ! 

At last, the flood for which she panted 

The wild words for her anguisli wanted, 

Have gush'd in song from tiiee ! 

Her dark curls sweep her knees to prav : 

" God bless the poet far away !" 



( l^i ) 

{Third tvlnspei — midnight.) ^ 

King of the heart's deep mysteries ! 

Your words have wings like lightning wove ! 
This hour, o'er hills and distant seas, 
They fly like flower-seeds on the breeze, 

And sow the world with love ! 
King of a realm without a throne, 
Ruled by resistless tears alone ! 



TO M , FilOM ABROAD. 

" The desire of the moth for the star- 
Of the night for the morrow — 

The devotion to something afar 
From the sphere of our sorrow." 



KELLEV. 



" L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura." 

Metastasjo. 



As, gazing on the Pleiades, 

We count each fair and starry one. 
Yet wander from the light of these 

To muse upon the Pleiad gone — 
As, bending o'er fresh-gather'd flowers, 

The rose's most enchanting hue 
Reminds us but of other hours 

Whose roses were all lovely too — 



(t^- 



(®) 



(185) 

So, dearest, when I rove among 
The bright ones of this foreign sky. 

And mark the smile, and list the sono-, • 
And watch the dancers gliding by, 

The fairer still they seem to be, 

The more it stirs a thought of thee ! 

The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime, 

Of many liearts may touch but one, 
And so this seeming careless rhyme 

Will whis})er to thy heart alone. 
I give it to the winds ! The bird, 

Let loose, to his far nest will flee. 
And love, though breathed but on a word. 

Will find thee over land and sea. 
Though clouds across the sky have driven. 

We trust at last the star will shine, 
And like the very light of heaven 

I trust thy love. Trml thou in mine ! 



SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A BALL. 

MoKN in the East ! How coldly fair 
It breaks upon my fever'd eye ! 

How chides the calm and dewy air ! 
How chides the pure and pearly sky ! 



16* 



(®) 



( 18^^ ) 

The stars melt in a brighter fire — "^ 

The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers- 

They, from their watch, in light retire. 
While we, in sadness, pass from ours. 

I turn from the rebuking morn, — 

The cold gray sky, and fading star, — 
And listen to the harp and horn, 

And see tlie waltzers near and far — 
The lamps and flowers are bright as yet. 

And lips beneath more bright than they,- 
IIow can a scene so fair beget 

The mournful thouglits we bear away ! 

'Tis something that thou art not here, 

Sweet lover of my liglitest word ! 
'Tis something that my mother's tear 

By these forgetful hours is stirr'd ! 
But I have long a loiterer been 

In haunts where Joy is said to be, 
And though with Peace I enter in, 

Tfie nymjili comes never forth with me ! 



TO A FACE BELOVED 



The music of the waken'd lyre 

Dies not upon the quivering strings, 



C®) 



( 187 ) 

Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire 
Upon the lip that trembling sings ; 

Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, 
Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, 

Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, 1 ween, 
Forever in its sparry wells — 

The spells of the enchanter lie 
Not on his own lone heart — his own rapt ear and eye. 

1 look upon a face as fair 

As ever made a lip of heaven 
Falter amid its music-prayer ! 

The first-lit star of summer even 
Springs not so softly on the eye. 

Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, 
Nor 'mid its sisters of the sky, 

So seems of heaven tlie dearest licht — 
Men murmur, where that face is seen, 
My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien. 

Yet though we deem the stars are blest, 

And envy, in our grief, the flower 
That bears but sweetness in its breast, 

And fear th' enchanter for his power, 
And love the minstrel for the spell 

Me winds out of his lyre so well — 
The stars are almoners of liirht. 

The lyrist of melodious air. 
The fountain of its waters bri<rht. 

And every thing most sweet and fair 



m 



w- 






( 188 ) 

Of that by which it cliarms tlie ear, 

The eye, of him that passes near — 
A lamp is lit in woman's eye 
That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by 



UNSEEN SPIRITS 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 
'Twas near the twiliirht-tide — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walk'd she ; but, viewlessly, 
Walk'd spirits at her side. 

Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charm'd the air ; 
And all astir look'd kind on her, 

And call'd her good as fair — 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 



She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true — 

For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
And the rich came not to woo — 



ij5^ 



( ^ ) 

But honor'd well arc charms to sell 
If priests the selling do. 

Now walkino: tliere was one more fair — 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company ' 

To make the spirit quail — 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn, 

And nothinfT could avail. 



o 



No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world's peace to pray ; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Her woman's heart gave way ! — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 
By man is cursed alway ! 



BETTER MOMENTS. 



EARLY POEM. 



My mother's voice ! how often creep 
Its accents on my lonely hours ! 

Like healing sent on wings of sleep, 
Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 

I can forget her melting prayer 
While leaping pulses madly fly. 



(190) 

But in the still, unbroken air, 

Her gentle tone comes stealing by — 
And years, and sin, and folly flee, 
And leave me at my mother's knee. 

T^ie evening hours, the birds, the ilowers, 

The starlight, moonlight — all that's meet 
For heaven in this lost world of ours — 

Remind mo of her teachings sweet. 
My heart is harder, and perhaps 

My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears; 
And there's a mildew in the lapse 

Of a few swift and chequer'd years — 
But nature's book is even yet 
With all my mother's lessons writ. 



I have been out at eventide 

[Jeneath a moonlight sky of spring, 
Wiien earth was garnish'd like a bride, 

And niijht had on her silver win<^ — 
When bursting leaves, and diamond grass. 

And waters leaping to the light. 
And all that make the })ulses pass 

With wilder fleetness, throng'd the night — 
When all was beauty — then have I 

With friends on whom my love is flung 
Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 

Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung, 
And when the beautiful sjiirit tlicre 

Fluni: over me its i::olden cliain, 



^ 



( 191 ) 

My mother's voice came on the air 
Like the light dropping of the rain— • 

And resting on some silver star 
The spirit of a bended knee, 

I've pour'd out low and fervent prayer 
That our eternity might be 

To rise in heaven, like stars at night, 

And tread a living path of light. 

I have, been on the dewy hills. 

When night was stealing from the dawn, 
And mist was on the waking rills, 

And tints were delicately drawn 
In the gray East — when birds were waking. 

With a low murmur in the trees, 
And melody by fits was breaking 

Upon the whisper of the breeze — 
And this when I was forth, perchance 
As a worn reveller from the dance — 

And when the sun sprang gloriously 
And freely up, and hill and river 

Were catching upon wave and tree 
The arrows from his subtle quiver — 

I say a voice has thrill'd me then, 
Heard on the still and rushing light. 

Or, creeping from the silent glen, 
Like words from the departing night. 

Hath stricken me, and I have press'd 
On the wet grass my fever'd brow, 

And pouring forth the earliest 



( l^'-^ ) 

First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow, 
Have felt my mother's spirit rush 

Upon mc as in by-past years, 

And, yielding to the blessed gush 

Of my ungovernable tears. 

Have risen up — the gay, the wild — 
Subdued and humble as a child. 



THE ANNOYER 

" Common as light is love, 
And its familiar voice wearies not ever." — Shellev. 

Love knoweth every form of air. 

And every shape of earth, 
And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words. 
And you hear his voice unceasingly. 

Like son£]^ in the time of birds. 



He peeps into the warrior's heart 
From the tip of a stooping plume, 

And the serried spears and the many men 
May not deny him room. 

He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 



I 



( 193 ) 

And be busy in his dream ; 
And he'll float to his eye in morning light 
Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 

And rides on the echo back, 
And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, 

And flits in his woodland track. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 

The cloud and the open sky — 
lie will haunt them all with bis subtle quiver, 

Like tbe light of your very eye. 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 

And ponders the silver sea, 
For Love is under the surface hid. 

And a spell of thought has he. 
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet, 

And speaks in the ripple low. 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line. 

And the hook hangs bare below. 

He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. 
And profanes the cell of the holy man, 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight. 

In earth, and sea, and sky. 
In every home of human thought. 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 

17 



r®)j 



(194) 



ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. 

It is not the fear of death 

That damps my brow, 
It is not for another breath 

I ask thee now ; 
I can die with a lip unstirr'd 

And a quiet heart — 
Let but tliis prayer be heard 

Ere 1 depart. 

I can give up my mother's look-— 

My sister's kiss ; 
I can think of love — yet l)rook 

A death like this ! 
1 can give up the young fame 

I burn'd to win — 
All — but the spotless name 

1 glory in. 

Thine is the power to give, 

Thine to deny, 
Joy for the hour I live — 

Calmness to die. 
By all the brave should cherish, 

By my dying breath,. 
1 ask that I may perish 

By a soldier's death ! 



® 



(195) 



DAWN. 

" That line I learned not in the old sad song." — Charles Lamb. 

Throw up the window ! 'Tis a morn for life 
In its most subtle luxury. The air 
Is like a breatliing from a rarer world ; 
And the south wind is like a gentle friend, 
Parting the hair so softly on my brow. 
It has come over gardens, and the flowers 
That kiss'd it are betray 'd ; for as it parts, 
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair, 
I know it has been trifling with the rose. 
And stooping to the violet. There is joy 
For all God's creatures in it. The wet leaves 
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing 
As if to breathe were music, and the grass 
Sends up its modest odor with the dew, 
Like the small tribute of humility. 

I had awoke from an unpleasant dream, 
And light was welcome to me. I look'd out 
To feel the common air, and when the breath 
Of the delicious morning met my brow, 
Cooling its fever, and the pleasant sun 
Shone on familiar objects, it was like 
The feeling of the captive who comes forth 
From darkness to the cheerful light of day. 



-^ 



(193) 

Oh ! could we wake from sorrow ; were it all 

A troubled dreani like this, to cast aside 

Like an untimely garment with the morn ; 

Could the lonc^ fever of the heart be cool'd 

By a sweet breath from nature ; or the gloom 

Of a bereaved affection pass away 

With looking on the lively tint of flowers — 

How lightly were the spirit reconciled 

To make this beautiful, bright world its home ! 



EXTRACT 

From a Poem delivered at the Departure of the Senior Class oj Yale 

College, in 1827. 

•f* rf^ "W" •!* *P •(* ^* ^P "P 

We shall go forth together. There will come 

Alike the day of trial unto all, 

And the rude world will buffet us alike. 

Temptation hath a music for all ears ; 

And mad ambition trumpeteth to all ; 

And the unfrovernable thoufrht within 

Will be in every bosom eloquent ; — 

But when the silence and the calm come on, 

And the high seal of character is set, 

We shall not all be similar. The flow 



( 197 ) 

Of life-time is a graduated scale ; 

And deeper than the vanities of power, 

Or the vain pomp of glory, there is set 

A standard measuring our worth for Heaven. 

The pathway to the grave may be the same, 

And the proud man shall tread it, and the low, 

With his bow'd head, shall bear him company. 

And there will be no precedence of power. 

In waking at the coming trump of God ; 

But in the temper of the invisible mind, 

The godlike and undying intellect, 

There are distinctions that will live in heaven, 

When time is a forgotten circumstance! 

The elevated brow of kings will lose 

The impress of regalia, and the slave 

Will wear his immortality as free. 

Beside the crystal waters ; but the depth 

Of glory in the attributes of God, 

Will measure the capacities of mind ; 

And as the angels differ, will the ken 

Of gifted spirits glorify him more. 

'Tis life's probation task. The soul of man 

Createth its own destiny of power ; 

And, as the trial is intense r here, 

His being hath a nobler strength in heaven. 

What is its earthly victory ? Press on ! 
For it hath tempted angels. Yet press on ! 
For it shall make you mighty among men ; 
And from the eyrie of your eagle thought, 

17* 



(®)]:=: 



m 
'i^ 



( I9S ) 

Ye shall look down on monarchs. O press o?i ! 
For the high ones and powerful shall co.ne 
To do you reverence : and the beautiful 
Will know the purer language of your brow, 
And read it like a talisman of love ! 
Press on ! for it is godlike to unloose 
The spirit, and forget yourself in thought ; 
Bending a pinion for the deeper sky, 
And, in the very fetters of your flesh, 
Mating with the pure essences of heaven ! 
Press on ! — " for in the grave there is no work, 
And no device." — Press on ! while yet ye may ! 

So lives the soul of man. It is the thirst 
Of his immortal nature ; and he rends 
The rock for secret fountains, and pursues 
The path of the illimitable wind 
For mysteries — and this is human pride ! 
There is a softer winding path through life. 
And man may walk it with unruffled soul, 
And drink its wayside waters till his hoart 
Is still'd with its overflowing happiness. 
The chart by which to traverse it is writ 
In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have 
Attentive and believing faculties ; 
To go abroad rejoicing in the joy 
Of beautiful and well-created things ; 
To love the voice of waters, ar-d the sheen 
Of silver fountains leaping to the sea ; 
To thrill with the rich melody of birds, 



^'- 






( 1^^^^ ) 

Living their life of music ; to be glad 

In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm ; 

To see a beauty in the stirring leaf, 

And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tr 

To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence 

Of God's deep wisdom ir^ the natural world ! 

It is to linger on " the ma2;ic face 

Of human beauty," and from light and shade 

Alike to draw a lesson ; 'tis to know 

The cadences of voices that are tuned 

By majesty and purity of thought ; 

To gaze on woman's beauty, as a star 

Whose purity and distance make it fair ; 

And from the spell of music to awake, 

And feel that it has purified the heart ! 

It is to love all virtue, like the light. 

Dear to the soul as sunshine to the eye ; 

And when the senses and the mind are fill'd 

Like wells from these involuntary springs, 

It is to calm the trembling depths with prayer. 

That it may be but a reflected Heaven. 



ee 



Thus would I, at this parting hour, be true 
To teachings which to me have priceless been. 
Thus would I — -like a just-departing cliild, 
Who lino-ers on the threshold of his home — 
Strive, with vague murmurings and lingering looks, 
To store up what were sweetest to recall. 
And oh, be this remember'd ! — that when life 
Shall have become a weariness, and hope 



■y^!— 



Thirsts for sercner waters, we may go 
Forth to God's wild-wood temples, and while ; 
Ifs choirs hreathc music, and its leafy aisles 
Are solemn with the beauty of the world, 
Kneel at its unwrought altar, and the cup 
That holds the " livina- waters" will be near. 



THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN. 

I Extracts from a Poem delivered before the Linonian Socirfij of Vale 

College, New Haven. '\ 



* 



* 



* The leaves we knew 
Are gone, these many summers, and the winds 
Have scatter'd them all roughly through the woihl 
But still, in calm and venerable strength. 
The old sterns lift their burthens up to heaven. 
And the young leaves, to the same pleasant tune, 
Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair. 
The shadows have the same cool, emerald air ; 
And prodigal as ever is the breeze. 
Distributing the verdure's temperate balm. 
Tiie trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong 
Of the lonc^-wanderiniT and returnin<2; heart, 
Is for the thin^ least changed. A stone unturn'd, 
Is sweeter than a strange or alter'd face ; 



mzzii 



(201) 

A tree, that flings Its shadow as of yore, 

Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words 

Of a long-look'd-for lip fall icy cold. 

Ye, who in this Academy of shade. 

Dreamt out the scliolar's dream, and then away 

On troubled seas went voyaging with Care, 

But hail to-day the well-remember'd haven — 

Ye, who at memory's trumpet-call,' have stayM 

The struirglinn; foot of life, the warrini^ hand, 

And, weary of the strife, come back to see 

The green tent where your harness was put on — 

Say — when you trod the shadowy street this morn, 

Leapt not your heart up to the glorious trees ? 

Say — was it $nly to my sleep they came — 

The angels, who to these remember'd trees 

Brought me back, ever ? I 4iave come, in di'oam, 

From many a far land, many a brighter sky, 

And trod these dappled shadows till the morn. 

From every Gothic isle my heart fled home. 

From every groined roof, and pointed arch. 

To find its type in emerald beauty here. 

The moon we worshipp'd thro' this trembling veil, 

In other heavens seem'd garish and unclad. 

The stars that burn'd to us thro' whispering leaves, 

Stood cold and silently in other skies. 

Stiller seem'd alway here the holy dawn 

Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees ; 

And who, that ever, on a Sabbath morn, 

Sent thro' this leafy roof a prayer to Heaven, 

And when the sweet bells burst upon the air, 



rr:rKvs) 



(®)PT^=^ 



( 202 ) 

Saw the leaves quiver, and the flecks of light 

Leap like caressing angels to the feet 

Of the church-going multitude, hut felt 

That here, God's day was holier — that the trees. 

Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing ever 

" To prayer !" " To prayer !" were but the lofty roof 

Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs 

Breezes and storm-winds, and the many birds 

Join'd in the varied anthem ; and that so, 

Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs, 

Closer, and readier to (tnr need they lay — 

Tiie spirits who keep watch 'twixt us and Heaven. 

*^^ ^^ ^^ *^ ^^ ^^ t^ 9^0 

•P r^ r^ r^ ^p ^^ ^^ "^ 

• 

Alas ! not spirits of bright wing alone 
" Dwell by the oracle of God." The tree 
That with its bright spray fans the sacred spire, 
And trembles like a seraph's lyre to prayer, 
Is peopled with the lying ministers 
To new-born passions, who, with couchant ear, 
Follow the lone steps of the musing boy. 
And ere the wild wish struixii-les to the liijht, 
Mask its dark features, and willi silvery voice 
Promise it wings resistless. Back, to-day, 
Comes many a foot, all wearily and slow. 
That went into the world with winged heel ; 
And many a man, still young, though wisely sad. 
Paces the sweet old shadows with a sigh. 
The spirits are so mute to manhood's ear 
That tranced the boy with music. On a nigjit. 






The fairest of a summer, years ago, 

There walk'd a youth beneath these arching trees. 

The moon was in mid-heaven, an orb of gold. 

The air was rock'd asleep, or, 'mid the leaves 

Waked without whisper. On the pavement lay 

The broken moonbeams, like a silver net. 

Massive and motionless, and, if a bird 

Sang a half carol as the moon wore on 

And look'd into his nest, or if the note 

Of a monotonous insect caught the ear, 

The silence was but challenged by the sound. 

And night seem'd stiller after. With his heart 

Robb'd of its sentinel, the youth paced on. 

His truant soul lay breathless on his lips, 

Drowsed with the spell of the voluptuous air ; 

And shut was memory's monitory book ; 

And mute, alas ! as they will sometimes be. 

Were Heaven's rebuking angels. Then uprose 

In the unguarded chamber of his heart, 

A murmur, inarticulate and, wild ; 

And ere it had a semblance, or a name, 

A soft voice from the trees said, " Wak'st thou there ? 

Wak'st thou, at last, O nature ? Thou hast slept, 

Far through the morn, and glowing flowers of joy. 

Many and bright ones, hast thou lost forever ; 

But life is full of roses — come away ! 

Shut up those dreary books, and come away ! 

Why is the night so passionately sweet, 

If made for study and a brow of care ? 

Why are your lips pride, and your eyes soft fire ? — 



(®i 



(204) 

Why beautiful in youth, — if cold to joy ? 
List to the pleading senses, where they lie, 
Numb and forgotten in the cell of thought ; 
Yet are they God's gift — precious as tlie rest. 
Use what thou hast — turn to the soft path ever, — 
And, in the garden of this pleasant world, 
Pluck what seems fairest to thee !" A light wind 
Stole through the trees, and with its airy hand 
Lifted the leafy veil from off the moon ; 
And steadfastly Night's solemn eye look'd in 
Upon the flush'd face of the troubled boy — 
And the mysterious voice was heard no more. 

A":ain 'twas nio-ht. A storm was in the air ; 

And, by his pale and solitary lamp, 

A youth of sterner temper than the last, 

Kept the lone scholar's vigil. He had laid 

His book upon its face, and with his head 

Turn'd to the rattling casement, sat erect, 

And listen'd to the shrill, tempestuous wind. 

Gust after gust swept by, and as the scream 

Of the careering tempest fiercer came. 

The youth's dark brow crouch'd lowering to his eye. 

And his thin lips press'd bloodlessly together ; 

And with some muttering words, as if replying 

To voices that call'd to him from the storm, 

He rose, and hurriedly strode forth. The air 

Below the lashing tree-tops was all black. 

Tlie lofty trunks creak'd staggering in the wind. 

But all invisibly ; and in the sky 



^m 



1®J 



( 205 ) 

Was only so much liglit as must be tiiere 

While hope is in the world. Small need had then 

The spirit who would wile that heart from Heaven 

To lend it mask or utterance. With step 

Reckless and fast the wanderer sped on, 

And as the tempest smote upon his breast, 

And howlingly fled past, he clench'd his hands, 

And struck his strong arms thro' the air, and rush'd 

Headlong with flying fury thro' the dark. 

Breathless and hoarse, at last, against the ti'uiik 

Of a vast tree he stood ; and to an ear 

Bending from out the branches as they swung, 

Unconsciously he mutter'd : — " I am weak, 

And this wild storm is mighty ; but I feel 

A joy in its career, as if my soul 

Breathed only thus. I am aroused — unchain'd. 

Something gives outcry in me that was dumb. 

Something that pined for weapons is in arms, 

And set on with a trumpet. Glorious blast ! 

What is my poor tranquillity of life — 

My abject study — to thy stormy joy ? 

An intellect is mine — a passive soul 

Antagonist to nothing — while for thee, 

A senseless element, are wings and power — • 

Power to dash tlie stars out from the sky — 

Wings to keep pace with midnight^round the world. 

The lightning's fiery traverse is no bar. 

The thunder's hush no check, the howling trees 

Only thy music. Demon, if thou art ! 

Prince of the powers of air, if such there be ! 

18 



'(■*■> 



( -200 ) 

Darkness and conflict are my element, 
As they are thine !" The storm luU'd suddenly. 
The tortured trees stood silent in the gloom, 
And all was still— save that amid the leaves 
Stirr'd a low murmur, which, like airy lips, 
Whispering close into the scholar's ear, 
Became articulate : — " Be calm ! be calm ! 
Return to thy neglected books, and read ! 
Thou shalt have all thou wilt, but, in thy books. 
Lie weapons keener than the lightning's edge, 
And in thy intellect a power of ill 
To which the storm-wind is an infant's anger. 
The blast blots out the stars that shine as^ain. 
The storm-wind and the darkness leave the trees 
Brighter for morn to smile on ; but the mind 
Forges from knowledge an archangel's spear, 
And, with the spirits that compel the world, 
Conflicts for empire. Call thy hale of day. 
Thy scorn of men, amhilion / — and, if moved 
By something in thy heart to wrong and slay — 
Justice sits careless with a bloody sword ; 
Religion has remorseless whips ; and gold 
Brings to thy spurning foot the necks of men. 
Be thou the swoixl — the wiiip — get thou the gold — 
And borne triumphant upon human praise, 
The liiiiuiiini]!: were too slow to do tiiy will — 
The stormy night not black enough." Again 
Toward the window glimmering thro' the dark 
The scholar turn'd, and with a j)allid brow, 
But lips of marble, fed his wasting lamp. 



( 207 ) 

And patiently read down the morning star. 
And he was changed thenceforward. * 

^P ^P •!" ^P "^ ^P ^P ^r 



***** Wave once more 

The wand athwart the mirror of the past. 

A summer's eve in June. The sun had shot 

A golden arrow down yon leafy aisle, 

And to his tent gone in. The dusty air 

Paraded in his glory. The bright spires, 

Like mourners who still see the lost in Heaven, 

Shone in his smile as if he had not set ; 

And presently, amid his glowing track. 

Like one who came reluctant to replace 

The great 'light newly fled, the evening star 

Stood forth with timid and diminish'd ray — 

But bn'orhten'd as the sun was lono-er f^one. 

Life was a feast at this delicious hour. 

And all came forth to it. The bent old man 

Paced musingly before his open door. 

The tired child, with hands cross'd droopingly. 

Sat at the threshold. Slowly pass'd the dame ; 

Slowly the listless scholar, sauntering back 

To his shut books unwillingly ; and low — 

Soften'd and low — as if the chord of love 

Were struck and harmonized throughout the world, 

The hum of voices rose upon the air. 

Hush'd were the trees the while ; and voiceless lay 

The wakeful spirits in the leaves, till, lo ! 



( 208 ) 

A pale youtli.* mingling in the throng ! With light 

And airy stop, and mien of such a grace 

As hreathcs thro' marhle from the sculptor's dream, 

He pass'd, and after him the stranger's eye 

Turn'd with inquiring wonder. Dumb no more 

Were the invisible dwellers in the trees ; 

For, as he went, the feathery branches seem'd 

To "syllable his name ;" and to the ears 

Of them who met him, whispering music flew, 

Stealing their hearts away to link to his. 

" Love him !" the old man heard as if the leaves 

Of his own roof-tree murmur'd it; "Love well 

The poet who may sow your grave with flowers. 

The traveller to the far land of the Past, 

Lost to your feet forever !" Sadly lean'd 

The mourner at her window as he came, 

And the far-drooping elm-leaf touch'd her brow, 

And whisper'd, " He has counted all thy tears ! 

The breaking chord was audible to him ! 

The agony for which thou, weeping, saidst 

There was no pity, for its throbs were dumb — 

He look'd but in thine eyes, and read it all ! 

Love him, for sorrowing with thee !" The sad child, 

Sitting alone with his unheeded grief, 

Look'd at him through his tears, and smiled to hear 

The same strange voice that talk'd to him in dreams 

Speak from the low tree softly ; and it said — 

" The stranger who looks on thee loves the child ! 

* James Hillhouse, who had died at New Haven a few months before. 



r^-m 



( 209 ) 

He lias seen angels like thee ; and thy sorrow 

Touches his own, as he goes silent by. 

Love him, fair child !" The poor man, from his door, 

Look'd forth with cheerful face, and as the eye. 

The soft eye of the poet, turn'd to his, 

A whisper from the tree said, " This is he 

Who knows thy heart is human as his own, 

Who, with inspired numbers, tells the world 

That love dwells with the lowly. He has made 

The humble roof a burthen in sweet song — 

Interpreted thy heart to happier men ! 

Love him ! oh, love him, therefore !" The stern man. 

Who, with the tender spirit of a child. 

Walks in some thorny path, unloved and lone ; 

The maiden with her secret ; the sad mother. 

Speaking no' more of her dishonor'd boy. 

But bound to him with all her heart-strings yet, — 

These heard the trees say, as the poet pass'd, 

" Yours is the mournful poetry of life. 

And in the sad lines of your silent lips, 

Reads he with tenderest pity ! Knit to him 

The hearts he opens like a clasped book, 

And, in the honey'd music of his verse. 

Hear your dumb griefs made eloquent !" With eye 

Watchful and moist, the poet kept his way. 

Unconscious of the love around him springing ; 

And when from its bent path the evening star 

Stepp'd silently, and left the lesser fires 

Lonely in heaven, the poet had gone in. 

Mute with the many sorrows he had seen ; 



-^ 



( 210 ) 

And, with the constancy of starry eyes, 
The hearts he touch'd drew to him. * 



THE THOUGHT ANGEL. 

A Waking and Sleeping Dream. 

Night is the sick man's day. 
For the soul wakens as the body fails. 
I had told weary hours ; but, with the hush 
Of midnight, my last memory of pain 
Had still'd before a thought of sudden brightness, 
And, like one rising upon spirit-limbs, 
Rose I, and wander'd with that thought, away. 
Oh, the blest truants that we are, when sense. 
The master, is too weak to call us in, 
And, loosed as if the school-time of a life 
Were over, with its spirit-checking toils. 
We to the fields stray — following where'er 
Fancy, the vagrant, calls us ! 

All unshod 
Went by the hours, that with such heavy heel 
Come last in the slow vigils of the strong, 
And the dawn broke. Call'd in from spirit-straying, 
I knew again that I was weak and ill. 
Beginning on another day of pain ; 
But, with a blessing on my Thought — (whose track, 
Far through a wilderness untrod before, 



(211) 

It seem'd that I might tell of with a pen 
Wing'd with illuminated words) — I slept. 

And presently I dream'd. In conscious sleep, 
I knew that what I saw was but a dream. 
The curtains of my bed, I knew, the while. 
Tented me round ; and on a couch beyond 
Lay a loved watcher by a dimming lamp ; 
And I remember'd her — and where I lay — 
And that the hour was morning — yet I saw. 
As if my dim room were dissolved in air, 
The vision I shall paint you. 

Lo ! my Thought ! — 
The Thought that I had follow'd in rapt waking, 
And, of whose sweet revealings unto me, 
1 long'd, in glowing words, to tell the world — 
That Thought I saw — clad in a breathing shape, 
And, like a sylph upon an errand sped, 
Prone for an arrowy flight, and through the air 
Cleaving its way resistless. The cleft wind, 
Revealingly, to that symmetric Thought 
Press'd its transparent dress ; and beautiful — 
Oh, beautiful as are the shapes divine 
Which woman's form makes possible to dream — 
Lay its impulsive outline on the air. 
I kindled with the pride that it was mine, 
The glory of its beauty — of my soul 
The easy effluence, moulded with a breath. 
And given, a rich gift, idly to the world ! 



( '^1'^ ) 

And carelessly 1 sped it on its way — 
But — turn'd to look on it once more. 

And, lo! 
A cloud, now, lay aback between its wings, 
Drawn by its motion onward — a small cloud 
That, from the night-enveloped world below, 
Seem'd lighted by the half-arisen moon. 
I saw it, not as one upon the earth. 
But as they see from Heaven. And as, again, 
I watch'd that Thought — (irrevocably sped, 
Without a fear that it might turn to ill. 
Without a prayer that it might bless in fleeing) — 
Behold, all calmly with it, on the cloud. 
Rode a wing'd angel with an open book ; 
And — of the hearts it moved — and of the dreams, 
Passions, and hopes it calVd on as itfieio — 
Of all it gave a voice to, that had else 
Slumbered unutter'd in the Thought-ruled ivorld — 
That angel kept a record. 

" Thou, hereafter," 
Said a voice near me, " shalt that record hear ; 
For, in thy using of that gift of power, 

SrEEDING WHAT TnOUGkx THOU WILT ACROSS THE WORLD, 

Thou spea'k'st with the pervading voice of God, 
And, as thy sway of the world's heart, will be 
The reckoning with thy Maker. Human Thought, 
Oh poet, lightly may take wondrous wings. 
Thv careless link binds words to travel far. 

li 



®)jz-jzz=^=^=z=^ ^=— ^=zzz -^ 



( -^13 ) 

But oh, take heed ! — for see — by dream-revealing- 
How Thoughts of power with angels go attended, 
Ouijleeing never the calm pen that writes 
Their history for Heaven /" 

The sun shone in 
Upon my wind-stifr'd curtains, and I woke. 
And this had been a dream. 'Tis sometimes so :- 
We dream ourselves what we have striven to be, 
And hear what had been well for us to hear, 
Did our dreams shadow what we are. 



DESPONDENCY IN SPRING. 

Beautiful robin ! with thy feathers red 

Contrasting, flower-like, with the soft green tree, 
Making thy little flights, as thou art led 

By things that tempt a simple one like thee. 
I would that thou couldst warble me to tears 
As lightly as the birds of other years! 

Idly to lie beneath an April sun. 
Pressing the perfume from the tender grass ; 

To watch a joyous rivulet leap on 
With the clear tinkle of a music glass. 
And, as I saw the early robin pass, 

To hear him through his little compass run — 
Only with joys like these to ovf '-flow 
Is happiness my heart will no more know. 



(®) 



(214) 



TO 



Thy love is like the thread of a new moon 
Drawn on the faint blue of a break in clouds : — 
The thunder of a storm not surely o'er 
Murmurs beneath it, and the lightning gleams 
Brokenly still, in one mass dark and near, 
As if it would close turbulently o'er 
And make all black again. But, motionless. 
As 'twere an angel's shallop in a calm, 
The bent moon floats, and its round freight of hope 
Lies in its breast — to unbelieving eyes 
A shadow that can never grow more fair, — 
But, to the clearer-sighted stars, a promise 
Of brightness that will wax to fill a heaven. 



THE TORN HAT. 

* * « * * n ^ ]gaf 
Fresh flung upon a river, that will dance 
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, 
Then sink of its own heaviness." 

Philip Slingsbv. 

There's something in a noble boy, 
A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 

With his uncheck'd, unbidden joy, 
His dread of books and love of fun. 



• (215) 

And in his clear and ready smile, 
Unshaded by a thought of guile, 

And unrepress'd by sadness — 
Which brings me to my childhood back, 
As if I trod its very track, 

And felt its very gladness. 
And yet it is not in his play, 

When every trace of thought is lost. 
And not when you would call him gay, 

That his bright presence thrills me most. 

His shout may ring upon the hill. 
His voice be echoed in the hall, 

His merry laugh like music trill, 
And I unheeding hear it all — 

For, like the wrinkles on my brow, 

I scarcely notice such things now — 
But when, amid the earnest game, 

He stops, as if he music heard, 
And, heedless of his shouted name 

As of the carol of a bird, 
Stands gazing on the empty air 
As if some dream were passing there — 

'Tis then that on his face I look, 
His beautiful but thoughtful face. 

And, like a long- forgotten book. 
Its sweet, familiar meaning trace — 

Remembering a thousand things 

Which pass'd me on those golden wings, 
Which time has fetter'd now — 

Things that came o'er me with a thrill, 



^S^-r- 



® 



{®) 



■m 



(316) 

And left me silent, sad, and still, 
And threw upon my brow 
A holier and a gentler cast, 
That was too innocent to last. 

'Tis strange how thought upon a child 

Will, like a presence, sometimes prcss- 
And when his pulse is beating wild. 

And life itself is in excess — 
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
Are all with ardor straining hio;h — 

How in his heart will spring 
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall 
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; 

And, on its silent wing. 
How with the clouds he'll float away, 
As wandering and as lost as they ! 



TO LAURA W , TWO YEARS OF AGE. 

Bright be the skies that cover thee, 

Child of the sunny brow — 
Bright as the dream flung over ihee — 

By all that meets thee now — 
Thy heart is beating joyously, 

Thy voice is like a bird's — 



(®) 



(217) 

And sweetly breaks the melody 

Of thy imperfect words. 
I know no fount that gushes out 
As gladly as thy tiny shout. 

I would that thou miijht'st ever be 

As beautiful as now, — 
Tliat time might ever leave as free 

Thy yet unwritten brow : 
T would life were " all poetry" 

To gentle measure set, 
That nought but chasten'd melody 

Might stain thine eye of jet — 
Nor one discordant note be spoken, 
Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 

I would — but deeper things than these 

With woman's lot are wove : 
Wrought of intensest sympathies, 

And nerved by purest love — 
By the strong spirit's discipline, 

By the fierce wrong forgiven, 
By all that wrings the heart of sin, 

Is woman won to heaven. 
" Her lot is on thee," lovely child — 
God keep thy spirit undefiled ! 

I fear thy gentle loveliness. 

Thy witching tone and air, 
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness 

19 



( '^19 ) 

May be to thee a snare. 
The silver stars may purely shine, 

The waters taintless flow — 
But they who kneel at woman's shrine, 

Wreathe poisons as they bow — 
She may fling back the gift again, 
But the crush'd flower will oftenest stain. 

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? 

Keep thee as thou art now ? 
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, 

At God's pure throne to bow ? 
The world is but a broken reed, 

And life grows early dim — 
Who shall be near thee in thy need, 

To lead thee up to Him ? 
He, who himself was " undefiled ?" 
With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GUIL. 

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. 
Her presence, like the shadow of a wing 
That is just lessening in the upper sky. 
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice. 
And for her step we listen, and the eye 



( 219 ) 

Looks for her wonted cominor with a stranf^e. 

Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel 

That she will no more come — that from her check 

The delicate flush has faded, and the light 

Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, 

That was so exquisitely pure, the dew 

Of the damp grave has fallen ! Who so loved. 

Is left among the living ? Who hath walk'd 

The world with such a winning loveliness, 

And on its bright brief journey gather'd up 

Such treasures of affection ? She was loved 

Only as idols are. She was the pride 

Of her familiar sphere — the daily joy 

Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze. 

And in the light and music of her way, 

Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, 

While looking upon beauty such as hers, 

That it would ever perish ? It is like 

The melting of a star into the sky 

While you are gazing on it, or a dream 

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. 



MAY. 



Oh, the merry May has pleasant hours, 
And dreamily they glide. 



i: 



( 220 ) 

As if they floated like the leaves 

Upon a silver tide. 
The trees are full of crimson buds, 

And the woods are full of birds, 
And the waters flow to music, 

Like a tune with pleasant words. 

The verdure of the meadow-land 

Is creeping to the hills, 
The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets 

Are blowing by the rills ; 
The lilach has a load of balm 

For every wind that stirs. 
And the larch stands green and beautiful 

Amid the sombre firs. 

There's perfume upon every wind — 

Music in every tree — 
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers — 

Sweets for the sucking bee ; 
The sick come forth for the healing South, 

The young are gathering flowers ; , 
And life is a tale of poetry, 

That is told by golden hours. 

J! must be a true philosophy, 

That the spirit when set free 
Still lingers about its olden home. 

In the flower and the tree, 
For the pulse is slirr'd as with voices heard 



<*j 






( 221 ) 

In the depth of the shady grove, 
And while lonely we stray through the fields away 
The heart seems answering love. 



THE SOLITARY. 



A PICTURE. 



Alone ! alone ! How drear it is 

Always to be alone ! 
hi such a depth of wilderness, 

The only thinking one ! 
The waters in their path rejoice, 

The trees together sleep — 
But I have not one silver voice 

Upon my ear to creep ! 

The sun upon the silent hills 

His mesh of beauty weaves, 
There's music in the laughing rills 

And in the whispering leaves. 
The red deer like the breezes fly 

To meet the bounding roe, 
But I have not a human sigh 

To cheer me as I go. 

I've hated men — I hate them now — 
But, since they are not here, 

19* 



( 222 ) 

I thirst for the familiar brow — 
Thirst for the stealing tear. 

And I should love to see the one, 
And feel the other creep, 

And then acain I'd be alone 
Amid the forest deep. 

I thought that I should love my hound- 
Hear my resounding gun, 

Till 1 forgot the thrilling sound 
Of voices — one by one. 

I thought that in the leafy hush 
Of nature they would die ; 

But, as the hinder'd waters rush. 
Resisted feelings fly. 

I'm weary of my lonely hut 

And of its blasted tree, 
The very lake is like my lot, 

So silent constantly. 
I've lived amid the forest gloom 

Until I almost fear — 
When will the thrilling voices come 

My spirit thirsts to hear ? 



(223) 



SOxNNET. 

Storm had been on the hills. The day had worn 

As if a sleep upon the hours had crept ; 
And the dark clouds that galher'd at the morn 

In dull, impenetrable masses slept, 
And the wet leaves hung droopingly, and all 
Was like the mournful aspect of a pall. 

Suddenly, on the horizon's edge, a blue 
And delicate line, as of a pencil, lay. 

And, as it wider and intcnser grew. 
The darkness removed silently away. 

And, with the splendor of a God, broke through 
The perfect glory of departing day : 

So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er, 

Will light upon the dying Christian pour. 



I 



ACROSTIC-SONxNET. 



Elegance floats about thee like a dross, 
Melting the airy motion of thy form 

Into one swaying grace ; and loveliness. 

Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm, 



! 

I ■■ 
I : 

li 

ii 



( 224 ) 

Is lurking in the chestnut of thy tress, 

iMiriching it, as moonlight after storm 
Minifies dark shadows into c;entleness. 

A beauty that bewilders like a spell 
Roigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy brow. 

So pure in vein'd transparency, doih tell 
IIow spiritually beautiful art thou — 

A temple where angelic love might dwell. 
Life in thy presence were a thing to keep, 
Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep. 



THE SOLDI EIl'S WIDOW. 
[a picture.] 

Wo for my vine-clad home ! 
That it should ever be so dark to me, 
With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree 

That I should ever come, 
Fearing the lonely echo of a tread 
Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead ! 



! 



I Lead on, my orphan boy ! 

i Thv home is not so desolate to thee — 

! 

And the low shiver in the linden tree 

May bring to thee a joy ; 
But oh, how dark is the bright home before thee. 
To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee ! 






(®j| 



( 225 ) 

Lead on ! for thou an now 
I\Ty sole remaining helper. God hath spoken, 
And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken ; 

And I have seen his brow — 
The forehead of my upright one, and just — 
Trod by the hoof of battle in the dust. 

He will not meet thee there 
Who blest thee at the eventide, my son ! 
And when the shadows of the nio-ht steal on, 

He will not call to prayer. 
The lips that melted, giving thee to God, 
Are in the icy keeping of the sod ! 

Ay, my own boy ! thy sire 
Is with the sleepers of the valley cast, 
And the proud glory of my life hath pass'd 

With his high glance of fire. 
Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, 
And a just man be gather'd to the tomb ! 

Why — bear them proudly, boy ! 
It is the sword he c:irded to his thiffh — 
It is the helm he wore in victory — 

And shall we have no joy ? 
For thy green vales, oh Switzerland, he died !- 
I will forget my sorrow in my pride ! 



C*) :r.- 



C'S> 



( 226 ) 



STARLIGHT, 



i 



The evening star will twinkle presently. 

The last small bird is silent, and the bee 

Has gone into his hive, and the shut flowers 

Are bending as if sleeping on the stem, 

And all sweet living things are slumbering 

In the deep hush of nature's resting time. 

The faded West looks deep, as if its blue 

Were searchable, and even as I look, 

The twilight hath stole over it, and made 

Its liquid eye apparent, and above 

To the far-stretching zenith, and around, 

As if they waited on her like a queen, 

Have stole out the innumerable stars 

To twinkle like intelligence in heaven. 

Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel ? 

Fit for the young affections to come out 

And bathe in like an element ! How well 

The night is made for tenderness — so still 

That the low whisper, scarcely audible. 

Is heard like music, and so deeply pure 

That the fond thought is chasten 'd as its springs 

And on the lip made holy. I have won 

Thy heart, my gentle girl ! but it hath been 

When that soft eye was on me, and the love 

I told beneath the evening influence 

Shall be as constant as its gentle star. 



( -^27 ) 



ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD PAYSOxN, D. D. 

A SERVANT of the living God is dead ! 

His errand imlh been well and early done, 

And early hath he gone to his reward. 

He shall come no more forth, but to his sleep 

Hath silently lain down, and so shall rest. 

Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone 
To Abraham's bosom. He shall no more thirst. 
Nor hunger, but forever in the eye. 
Holy and meek, of Jesus, he may look, 
Unchided, and untempted, and unstain'd. 
Would ye bewail our brother ? He hath gone 
To sit down with the prophets by the clear 
And crystal waters ; he hath gone to list 
Isaiah's harp and David's, and to walk 
With Enoch, and Elijah, and the host 
Of the just men made perfect. He shall bow 
At Gabriel's hallelujah, and unfold 
The scroll of the Apocalypse with John, 
And talk of Christ with Mary, and go back 
To the last supper, and the garden prayer 
With the beloved disciple. He shall hear 
The story of the Incarnation told 
By Simeon, and the Triune mystery 
Burning upon the fervent lips of Paul. 



( '2'2H ) 

He shall have wings of glory, and shall soar 

To the remoter firmaments, and read 

The order and the harmony of stars ; 

And, in the might of knowledge, he shall bow, 

In the deep pauses of archangel harps. 

And, humble as the Seraphim, shall cry — 

Who, by his searching, finds thee out, oh God ! 

There shall he meet his children who have gone 
Before him, and as other years roll on. 
And his loved flock go up to him, his hand 
Again shall lead them gently to the Lamb, 
And brinfT them to the livino; waters there. 

Is it so o-ood to die ! and shall we mourn 
That he is taken early to his rest ? 
Tell me ! oh mourner for the man of God ! 
Shall we bewail our brother — that he died ? 



JANUARY 1, 1828. 

Fleetly hath pass'd the year. The seasons came 
Duly as they are wont — the gentle Spring, 
And the delicious Summer, and the cool. 
Rich Autumn, with trie nodding of the grain. 



:— {(®) 



^~ 



^ 



( 229 ) 

And Winter, like an old and hoary man^ 

Frosty and stiff — and so are chronicled. 

We have read gladness in the new green leaf, 

And in the first-blown violets ; we have drunk 

Cool water from the rock, and in the shade 

Sunk to the noon-tide slumber ; — we have pluck'd 

The mellow fruitage of the bending tree, 

And girded to our pleasant wanderings 

When the cool wind came freshly from the hills ; 

And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves 

Had faded from its glory, we have sat 

By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced 

Over the fulness of the gather'd sheaf. 

" God hath been very good !" 'Tis lie whose hand 

Moulded the sunny hills, and hollow 'd out 

The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep 

The fountains in their secret places cool ; 

And it is He who leadeth up the sun. 

And ordereth the starry influences. 

And tempereth ,the keenness of the frost — 

And therefore, in the plenty of the feast, 

And in the lifting of the cup, let Uni 

Have praises for the well-completed year. 



1*^ 



~-^^J' 



( 230 ) 



JANUARY 1, 18-^. 

Winter is come again. Tlio sweet south-west 
(s a forgotten wind, and the strong earth 
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound 
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound, 
Save of the skater's heel, and there is laid 
An icy finger on the lip of streams. 
And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, 
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought. 
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends 
Many sweet voices with its odors out, 
And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe 
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb ! 
God made his ministry a silent one, 
And he has given him a foot of steel 
And an unlovely aspect, and a breath 
Sharp to the senses — and we know that He 
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning liid 
Under the shadow of His hand. Look up ; 
And it shall be interpreted — Your home 
Hath a temptation now ! There is no voice 
Of waters with beguiling for your car, 
And the cool forest and the meadows green 
Witch not your feet away ; and in the dells 
There are no violets, and upon the hills 



C®j 



'(®) 



( 2?U ) 

There are no sunny places to lie down. 
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire 
Wait for the offices of love, and hear 
Accents of human tenderness, and feast 
Your eye upon the beauty of the young. 
It is a season for the quiet thought, 
And the still reckoning with thyself. The yeai 
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time 
Whispers the history of its vanish'd hours ; 
And the heart, calling its affections up, 
Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still 
And settles like a fountain, and the eye 
Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all 
That stirr'd its troubled waters. It is well 
That Winter with the dying year should come ! 



PSYCHE, 
Before the Tribunal of Venus. 



Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche ! What is she, 

That those soft fringes timidly should fall 

Before her, and thy spiritual brow 

Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud ? 

A loftier gift is thine than she can give — 

That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow 



( 2:)2 ) 

To perfectncss, and give unto tiie fbrin 
A beautiful proportion ; she may stain 
Tiie eye witli a celestial blue — the cheek 
With carmine of the sunset ; she may breathe 
Grace into every motion, like the play 
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud ; 
She may give all that is within her own 
Bright cestus — and one silent look of thine, 
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all. 

Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, 
'i'he spirit than its temple. Wiiat's the brow. 
Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air, 
Or color, but the beautiful links that chain 
The mind from its rare clement ? There lies 
A talisman in intellect which yields 
Celestial music, when the master hand 
Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath 
The outward semblance, and to common sight 
Is an invisible and hidden thing ; 
But when the lip is faded, and tiie cheek 
Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the; form 
\Vitches the sense no more, and human love 
Falters in its idolatry, this spell 
Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on 
Stealing anew the affections. 

Marvel not 
That Love leans sadly on his bended bow. 
He hath found out the loveliness of mind, 



.ty 






( 233 ) 

And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be 
Evei — the glory of the human form 
Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop 
When its brief grace hath faded ; but the mind 
Perisheth not, and when the outward charm 
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes, 
And is the lovelier that it slept so long — 
Like wells that by the wasting of their flow 
Have had their deeper fountains broken up. 



ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BOY AT PLAY. 

Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curls 

From his white shoulders by the winds were swept, 

And the clear color of his sunny cheek 

Was bright with motion. Through his open lips 

Shone visibly a delicate line of pearl. 

Like a white vein within a rosy shell, 

And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it lay 

Beneath his lashes, like a drop of dew 

Hid in the moss, stole out as covertly 

As starlight from the edging of a cloud. 

I never saw a boy so beautiful. 

His step was like the stooping of a bird. 

And his limbs melted into grace like things 

80* 



®-- 



( 234 ) 

Shaped by the wind of summer. He was like 

A painter's fine conception — such an one 

As he would have of Ganymede, and weep 

Upon his pallet that he could not win 

The vision to his easel. Who could paint 

The young and shadowless spirit ? Who could chain 

The sparkling gladness of a heart that lives, 

Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light, 

With an unbreathing pencil ? Nature's gift 

Has nothing that is like it. Sun and stream, 

And the new leaves of June, and the young lark 

That flees away into the depths of heaven. 

Lost in his own wild music, and the breath 

Of springtime, and the summer eve, and noon 

In the cool autumn, are like fingers swept 

Over sweet-toned affections — but the joy 

That enters to the spirit of a child 

Is deep as his young heart : his very breath, 

The simple sense of being, is enough 

To ravish him, and like a thrilling touch 

He feels each moment of his life go by. 

Beautiful, beautiful childhood ! with a joy 
That like a robe is palpable, and flung 
Out by your every motion ! delicate bud 
Of the immortal flower that will unfold 
And come to its maturity in heaven ! 
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light 
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out 
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf 






^ ^ 

( 235 ) 

Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance 
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, 
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face 
Of the delightful earth will to your eye 
Grow dim ; the fragrance of the many flowers 
Be noticed not, and the heo-uilinfr voice 
Of nature in her gentleness will be 
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. 
I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy ! 



HERO. 

Chtudio. Know you any, Hero 1 
He?o. None, my lord ! 



Much Ado about Nothin 



S- 



Gentle and modest Hero ! I can see 
Her delicate figure, and her soft blue eye, 
Like a warm vision — lovely as she stood, 
Veil'd in the presence of young Claudio. 
Modesty bows her head, and that young heart 
That would endure all suffering for the love 
It hideth, is as tremulous as the leaf 
Forsaken of the Summer. She hath flunsr 
Her all upon the venture of her vow, 
And in her trust leans meekly, like a flower 



( 236 ) 

By the still river tempted from its stem, 
And oil its bosom floatinir. 



'!->■ 



Once again 
I see her, and she standeth in her pride, 
With her soft eye enkindled, and her lip 
Curled v/ith its sweet resentment, like a line 
Of lifeless coral. She hath heard the voice 
That was her music utter it, and still 
To her affection faithful, she hath turn'd 
And question'd, in her innocent unbelief, 
" Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide ?"- 
How did they look upon that open brow, 
And not read purity ? Alas for truth ! 
It ha^h so many counterfeits. The words, 
That to a child were written legibly. 
Are by the wise* mistaken, and when light 
Ilath made the brow transparent, and the face 
Is like an angel's — virtue is so fair — 
They read it like an over-blotted leaf, 
And break tbe heart that wrote it. 



■Q 



I 



I 



( '^-' ) 



IDLENESS. 

" Idleness is sweet and sacred." 

Wai^ter Savage Landoii. 

" Wlu'ii you have found a day to be idle, be idle for a day. 
Wlit-n you have met vvith three cups to drink, drink your three cups." 

Chinese Poet. 

The rain is playing its soft pleasant tune 
Fitfully on the skylight, and the shade 
Of the fast-flying clouds across my book 
Passes with gliding change. My merry fire 
Sings cheerfully to itself; my musing cat 
Purrs as she wakes from her unquiet sleep, 
And looks into my face as if she felt. 
Like me, the gentle influence of the rain. 
Here have I sat since morn, reading sometimes, 
And sometimes listening to the faster fall 
Of the large drops, or rising with the stir 
Of an unbidden thought, have walk'd awhile, 
With the slow steps of indolence, my room, 
And then sat down composedly again 
To my quaint book of olden poetry. 

It is a kind of idleness, I know ; 
And I am said to be an idle man — 
And it is very true. I love to go 
Out in the pleasant sun, and let my eye 
Rest on the human faces that pass by, 



M 



( 238 ) 

Each with its gay or busy interest : 

And then I muse upon their lot, and read 

Many a lesson in their changeful cast, 

And so grow kind of heart, as if the sight 

Of human beings bred humanity. 

And I am better after it, and go 

More grateful to my rest, and feel a love 

Stirring my heart to every living thing ; 

And my low prayer has more humility, 

And I sink lightlier to my dreams — and this, 

'Tis very true, is only idleness ! 

I love to go and mingle with the young 
In the gay festal room — when every heart 
Is beating faster than the merry tune. 
And their blue eyes are restless, and their lips 
Parted with eager joy, and their round cheeks 
Flush'd with the beautiful motion of the dance. 
And I can look upon such things, and go 
Back to my solitude, and dream bright dreams 
For their fast coming years, and speak of them 
Earnestly in my prayer, till I am glad 
With a benevolent joy — and this, 1 know, 
To the world's eye is only idleness ! 

And when the clouds pass suddenly away, 
And the blue sky is like a newer world, 
And the sweet-growing things — forest and flower, 
Humble and beautiful alike — are all 
Breathing up odors to the very heaven — 



( 239 ) 

Or when the frost has yielded to the sun 
In the rich autumn, and the fihny mist 
Lies like a silver lining on the sky, 
And the clear air exhilarates, and life 
Simply, is luxury — and when the hush 
Of twilight, like a gentle sleep, steals on. 
And the birds settle to their nests, and stars 
Spring in the upper sky, and there is not 
A sound that is not low and musical — ■ 
At all these pleasant seasons I go out 
With my first impulse guiding me, and take 
Wood-path or stream, or slope by hill or vale, 
And in my recklessness of heart, stray on. 
Glad with the birds, and silent with the leaves. 
And happy with the fair and blessed world — 
And this, 'tis true, is only idleness ! 

And I should love to go up to tlie sky. 
And course the heavens, like stars, and float away 
Upon the gliding clouds that have no stay 
In their swift journey — and 'twould be a joy 
To walk the chambers of the deep, and tread 
The pearls of its untrodden floor, and know 
The tribes of the unfathomable depths — 
Dwellers beneath the pressure of a sea ! 
And I should love to issue with the wind 
On a strong errand, and o'ersweep the earth 
With its broad continents and islands green, 
Like to the passing of a spirit on ! — 
And this, 'tis true, were only idleness ! 



( 240 ) 



THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION OF HIS CLASS, 
AT YALE COLLEGE. 

Ye've gatlier'd to your place of prayer 

With slow and measured tread : 
Your ranks are full, your mates all there — 

But the soul of one has fled. 
He was the proudest in his strength, 

The manliest of ye all ; 
Why lies he at that fearful length, 

And ye around his pall ? 

\e reckon it in days, since he 

Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
With his dark eye flashing gloriously, 

And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
O, had it been but told you, then. 

To mark whose lamp was dim — 
From out yon rank of fresh-lipp'd men, 

Would ve have sinijled him ? 

Whose was the sinewy arm, that flung 

Defiance to the ring ? 
Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — 

Yet not for glorying ? 
Whose heart, in generous deed and thought. 

No rivalry might brook. 



rf% 



^ = r^: ^„^. 



( 241 ) 

And yet distinction claiming not ? 
There lies he — go and look ! 

On now — his requiem is done, 

The last deep prayer is said — 
On to his burial, comrades — on, 

With a friend and brother dead ! 
Slow — for it presses heavily — 

It is a man ye bear ! 
Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 

On the gallant sleeper there. 

Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have laid 

His dark locks on his brow- 
Like life — save deeper light and shade : 

We'll not disturb them now. 
Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful. 

That blue-vein'd eyelid's sleep. 
Hiding the eye death left so dull — 

Its slumber we will keep. 

Rest now ! his journeying is done — 

Your feet are on his sod — 
Death's blow has fell'd your champion — 

He waiteth here his God. 
Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 

To be heart-broken here — 
For the grave of one, the best of us, 

Is water'd by the tear. 



m 



( 242 ) 



SPRING. 

"L'onda del mar divisa 
Bagna la valle e I'monle, 
Va passegiera 
In iiume, 
Va prigionera 
In fonte, 
Mornioni sempre e geme 
Fin che non torna al mar." 

Metastasio. 

The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 

With its sliijht finixers full of leaves and flowers, 

And with it comes a thirst to be away, ' 

In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours, 

A feeling like the worm's av/akening wings, 

Wild for companionship with swifter things. 

We pass out from the city's feverish hlim, 
To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 

And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods — 

Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, 

To teach the indolent heart it still must Jeel. 

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, 

The waters tripping with their silver feet, 
The turning to the light of leaves in June, 



M 



( 243 ) 

And the light whisper as their edges meet — 
Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 
The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 

There's no contentment in a world like this, 
Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 

We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 

That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; 

Rird-like, the prison'd soul laill lift its eye 

And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 



O^ A PICTURE OF A GIRL LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER 

THROUGH THE WOOD. 

The green leaves as we pass 
Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, 
And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, 

And the low forest-grass 
Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind — 
Alas ! for thee, sweet mother ! thou art blind ! 

A.nd nature is all bright ; 
And the faint gray and crimson of the dawn, 
Like folded curtains from tlie day are drawn ; 

And evening's purple light 



( 244 ) 

Quivers in tremulous softness on the sky — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! for thy clouded eye ! 

The moon's new silver shell 
Trembles above thee, and the stars float up, 
In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup 

Is pencill'd passing well. 
And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou canst not see ! 

And the kind looks of friends 
Peruse the sad expression in thy face, 
And the child stops amid his bounding race, 

And the tall stripling bends 
Low to thine ear with duty unforgot — 
Alas ! sweet mother ! that thou seest them not ! 

But thou canst Jiear ! and love 
May richly on a human tone be pour'd. 
And the least cadence of a whisper'd word 

A daughter's love may prove — 
And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, 
Albeit thou canst not see my face the while ! 

Yes, thou canst hear ! and He 
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung, 
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung 

Heaven and earth and sea ! 
And 'tis a lesson in our hearts to know — 
W'dli hut one sense the soul may overflow. 

m 



( 245 ) 



ROARING BROOK. 

[A passage of scenery near New Haven.] 

It was a mountain stream that with the leap 

Of its impatient waters had worn out 

A channel in the rock, and wash'd away 

The earth that had upheld the tall old trees, 

Till it was darken'd with the shadowy arch 

Of the o'er-leaning branches. Here and there 

It loiter'd in a broad and limpid pool 

That circled round demurely, and anon 

Sprung violently over where the rock 

Fell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on. 

Till they were broken by the hanging moss. 

As anger with a gentle word grows calm. 

In spring-time, when the snows were coming down, 

And in the flooding of the autumn rains. 

No foot might enter there — but in the hot 

And thirsty summer, when the fountains slept. 

You could go up its channel in the shade. 

To the far sources, with a brow as cool 

As in the grotto of the anchorite. 

Here when an idle student have I come, 

And in a hollow of the rock lain down 

And mused until the eventide, or read 

Some fine old poet till my nook became 

A haunt of faery, or the busy flow 

SI* 



( 246 ) 

Of water to my spell -be wilder 'd ear 

Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. 

Pleasant have been such hours, and though the wise 

Have said that I was indolent, and they 

Who taught me have reproved me that I play'd 

The truant in the leafy month of June, 

I deem it true philosophy in him 

Whose path leads to the rude and busy world, 

To loiter with these wayside comforters. 



AN APOLOGY 
For avoiding^ after long separation, a woman once loved. 

See me no moje on earth, I pray ; 

Thy picture, in my memory now. 
Is fair as morn, and fresh as May ! 

Few were as beautiful as thou ! 
And still I see that willowy form — 

And still that cheek like roses dyed — 
And still that dark eye, deep and warm — • 

Thy look of love — thy step of pride.! — 
Thy memory is a star to me. 
More bright as day-beams fade and flee. 

• 

But thou, indeed ! — Ah ! years have fled. 
And thou, like others, changed tiie while- 



( 247 ) 

For joy upon the lip lies dead 

If pain but cloud the sunny smile ! 

And care will make the roses pale, 

And tears will soil the lily's whiteness, 

And ere life's lamp begins to fail 

The eye forgets its trick of brightness ! 

Look for the dew of morn at noon, 

And weep for beauty lost as soon ! 

Cold words that hide the envious thought ! 

I could not bear thy face to see — 
But oh, 'tis not that time has wrought 

A change in features dear to me ! 
No ! had it been my lot to share 

The fragrance of the flower decay 'd — 
If I had borne but half the care 

That on thy brow its burden laid — 
If in my love thou'dst burn'd away, 
The ashes still had warm'd the heart so cold to-day ! 



TO HELEN IN A HUFF. 

Nay, lady, one frown is enough 
In a life as soon over as this — 

And though minutes seem long in a huff. 
They're minutes 'tis pity to miss ! 



M 



1 

I 
I 
I 



( 248 ) 

The smiles you imprison so lightly 
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse ; 

And though you may smile again brightly, 
You've lost so much light from your lips ! 
Pray, lady, smile ! 

# 

The cup that is longest untasted 

IVIay be with our bliss running o'er, 
And, love when we will, we have wasted 

An age in not loving before ! 
Perchance Cupid's forging a felter 

To tie us together some day. 
And, just for the chance, we had better 

Be laying up love, I should say ! 
Nay, lady, smile ! 



CITY LYRICS 

Argument. — The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweet- 
heart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is incUned for more) ices. 
He confines his muse to matter? which any every-day man and young 
woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent 
refreshment. 

CoiME out, love — the night is enchanting ! 

The moon hangs just over Broadway ; 
Tlie stars are all lighted and panting — 

(Hot weather up there, I dare say !) 



( -249 ) 

'Tis seldom that " coolness" entices, 
And love is no better for chilling — 

But come up to Tliompson's for ices, 

And cool your warm heart for a shilling ! 

What perfume comes balmily o'er us ? 

Mint juleps from City Hotel ! 
A loafer is smoking before us — 

(A nasty cigar, by the smell !) 
Oh Woman ! thou secret past knowing ! 

Like lilachs that grow by the wall, 
You breathe every air that is going, 

Yet gather but sweetness from all ! 

On, on ! by St. Paul's, and the Astor ! 

Religion seems very ill-plann'd ! 
For one day we list to the pastor. 

For six days we list to the band : 
The sermon may dwell on tlie future, 

The organ your pulses may calm — 
WHien — pest ! — that remember'd cachucha 

Upsets both the sermon and psalm ! 

Oh, pity the love that must utter 

While goes a swift omnibus by ! 
(Though sweet is I scream^ when the flutter 

Of fans shows thermometers high) — 
But if what I bawl, or I mutter, 

* Query. — Should this be Ice cream, or / scriam ?-:- Printer* s Devil. 






( 250 ) 

Falls into your ear but to die, 
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter 
Is not more unhappy than 1 ! 



TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK 

BUTTONS. 

I KNOW not who thou art, oh lovely one ! 

Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful — 

Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me 

While handing up thy sixpence through the hole 

Of that o'er-freighted omnibus ! Ah me ! 

The world is full of meetings such as this — 

A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply — 

And sudden partings after ! We may pass. 

And know not of each other's nearness now — 

Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I, 

Lone, in the Waverley ! Oh, life of pain ! 

And even should I pass where thou dost dwell — 

Nay — see thee in the basement taking tea — 

So cold is this inexorable world, 

I must glide on ! I dare not feast mine eye ! 

I dare not make articulate my love. 

Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in 

Venture to fling to thee my innocent card — 

Not knowing thy papa ! 



( '-isi ) 

Hast thou papa ? 
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl ? 
And what doth he for lucre ? Lo again ! 
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream ! 
For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love 
Can make thee, and the ministering hands 
Of milliners, incapable of more. 
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, 
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly. 
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath 
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name 
Manliattan's orient verge, and eke the west 
In its far down extremity. Thy sire 
May be the signer of a temperance pledge, 
And clad all decently may walk the earth — 
Nay — may be number'd with that blessed few 
Who never ask for discount — yet, alas ! 
If, homeward wending from his daily cares, 
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending- 
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown, — 
My vision is departed ! Harshly falls 
The doom upon the ear, " She's not genteel !" 
And pitiless is woman who doth keep 
Of " good society" the golden key ! 
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, 
To stoop not after rising ! 

But farewell, 
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell 
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone ! 



# 



'^ 



— ((®) 



( 252 ) 

And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, 
Art only not more lovely than genteel — 
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, 
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee 
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain — 
And, with up-town devotedness and truth, 
My love shall hover round thee ! 



THE LADY IN THE WHITI-: DRESS, WHOM I HELPED LNTO 

THE OMNIBUS. 

I KNOW her not ! Her hand has been in mine, 

And the warm pressure of her taper arm 

Has thrill'd upon my fmgers, and the hem 

Of her white dress has lain upon my feet. 

Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds, 

Was kindled to a fever ! I, to her. 

Am but the undistinguishable leaf 

Blown by upon the breeze — yet I have sat. 

And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes, 

(Close as a lover in his hour of bliss. 

And steadfastly as look the twin stars down 

Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed ! 

And I have felt from out its gate of pearl 

Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat 

Dreaming away the moments, I have tried 



>lr= 



( 253 ) 

To count the long dark lashes in the fringe 

Of her bewildering eyes ! The kerchief sweet 

That enviably visits her red lip 

Has slumber'd, while she held it, on my knee, — 

And lier small foot has crept between mine own — 

And yet, she knows me not ! 

Now, tlianks to heaven 
For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping — 
Wealth that the m.iser cannot hide away ! 
Buy, if they will, the invaluable fiower — 
They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze ! 
Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind — 
It pours its light on every passing eye ! 
And he who on this beauty sets his name — 
Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone 
Such loveliness was first of anirels born — • 
Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear, 
That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye. 
And, unrebuked, may worship lier in son"- — 
Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way, 
Hath set bright lamps with loveliness aliglit — 
And all may in their guiding beams rejoice ; 
But he — as 'twere a watcher by a lamp — 
Guards but this briojht one's shininir. 



II 



( 254 ) 



THE WHITE CHIP HAT. 

I pass'd her one day in a hurry, 

When late for the Post with a letlur — 
I think near the corner of Murray — 

And up rose my heart as I met her ! 
I ne'er saw a parasol handled 

So like to a dutchess's doing — 
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal IM, 

Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing- — • 
Lovely thing ! 

Surprising ! — one woman can dish us 

So many rare sweets up together ! 
Tournure absolutely delicious — 

Chip hat without flower or feather — • 
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced, 

Her waist like the cup of a lily — 
And an air, that, while daintily modest, 

Repell'd both the saucy and silly — 
Quite the thing ! 

For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir, 
There's reason in straining one's tether- 

And, to see her again in Broadway, sir. 
Who would not be lavish of leather ! 



-.. (("^i 



( 255 ) 

I met her again, and as you know 
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney — 

But 1 said a bad word — for my Juno 
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney — ■ 
Horrid thing ! 

Away flies the dream I had nourish'd — 

My castles like mockery fall, sir ! 
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd 

Seem varnish and crockery all, sir ! 
The bright cup which angels might handle 

Turns earthy when finger'd by asses — 
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle. 

Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes ! — 
Not the thing ! 



YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU. 

As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida 
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying 
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair — 
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair — 
And as that robin lingers on the wing. 
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air, 
And loves her for her coldness not the less — • 



( 256 ) 

But fain would win her to tliat warmer sky 

AVhere love lies waking with the fragrant stars- 

So I — a lano-uisher for sunnier climes, 

Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever 

Image the tropic deathlessness of love — 

Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady. 

To a more genial clime than cold Broadway ! 

Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on, 
As doth the swan upon the yielding water, 
And witli a cheek like alabaster cold ! 
But as thou didst divide the amorous air 
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift 
That veil of lano;uid lashes to look in 
At Leary's tempting window — lady ! then 
My heart sprang in beneath that fringed veil, 
Like an adventurous bird that would escape 
To some warm chamber from the outer cold ! 
And there would I deligliledly remain. 
And close tliat fringed window with a kiss. 
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast, 
Be prisoner forever ! 






(257) 



LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 

TiiEY may talk of love in a cottage, 

And bovvers of trellised vine — 
Of nature bewitcliingly simple, 

And milkmaids half divine ; 
They may talk of the pleasure of slcoping 

In the shade of a spreading tree, 
And a walk in the fields at morning, 

By the side of a footstep free ! 

But give me a sly flirtation 

By the light of a chandelier — 
With music to play in the pauses. 

And nobody very near ; 
Or a seat on a silken sofa. 

With a glass of pure old wine, 
And mamma too blind to discover 

The small white hand in mine. 

Your love in a cottage is hungry. 

Your vine is a nest for flies — 
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, 

And simplicity talks of pies ! 
You lie down to your shady slumber 

And wake with a bug in your ear, 

22- 



( 258 ) 

And your damsel that walks in the morning 
Is shod like a mountaineer. 

True love is at home on a carpet, 

And mightily likes his ease — 
And true love has an eye for a dinner. 

And starves beneath shady trees. 
His wing is the fan of a lady, 

His foot's an invisible thing, 
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel, 

And shot from a silver string. 



THE DECLARATION. 

'TwAS late, and the gay company was gone, 
And light lay soft on the deserted room 
From alabaster vases, and a scent 
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came 
Through the unshutter'd window on the air, 
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints 
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things 
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, 
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel 
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd 
To whisper what I could not when the crowd 
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt, 



'^. 



( 259 ) 

And with the fervor of a lip unused 
To the cool breath of reason, told my love. 
There vv^as no answer, and I took the hand 
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss 
Upon it unforbidden — and again 
Besought her, that this silent evidence 
That I was not indifferent to her heart, 
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. 
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke. 
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised 
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd 
Earnestly on me — She had been asleep ! 



POEM 

Delivered at Brown University, Sept. 6, 1831. 

If, in the eyes that rest upon me now, 
I see the lio;ht of an immortal fire — 
If, in the awe of concentrated thought, 
The solemn presence of a multitude 
Breathing together, the instinctive mind 
Acknowledges aright a type of God — 
Then is the ruling spirit of this hour 
Compell'd from Heaven ; and if the soaring minds 
Usher'd this day upon an untried flight 
Stoop not their courses, we are met to cheer 
Spirits of light sprung freshly on their way. 



(*) 



( 260 ) 

But, what a mystery — tliis erring mind ? 
It wakes within a frame of various powers, 
A stranger in a new and wondrous world. 
It brings an instinct from some other sphere. 
For its fine senses are familiar all. 
And, with th' unconscious habit of a dream. 
It calls, and they obey. The priceless sight 
Springs to its curious organ, and the ear 
Learns strangely to detect th' articulate air 
In its unseen divisions, and the tongue 
Gets its miraculous lesson with the rest. 
And in the midst of an obedient throng 
Of well-trained ministers, the mind goes forth 
To search the secrets of a new-found home. 

Its infancy is full of hope and joy. 
Knowledge is sweet, and Nature is a nurse 
Gentle and holy ; and the light and air, 
And all things common, warm it like the sun, 
And ripen the eternal seed within. 
And so its youth glides on ; and still it seem.-' 
A heavenward spirit, straying oftentimes, 
But never widely ; and if Death might come 
And ravish it from earth, as it is now, 
We could almost believe that it would mount. 
Spotless and radiant, from the very grave. 
But manhood comes, and in its bosom sits 
Another spirit. Stranger as it seems, 
It is familiar there, for it has grown 
In the unsearch'd recesses all unseen, — 



—^5^ 



( 261 ) 

Or if its shadow darken'd the bright doors, 

'Twas smiled upon and gently driven in ; 

And as the spider and the honey-bee 

Feed on the same bright flowers, this mocking soul 

Fed with its purer brother, and grew strong. 

Till now, in semblance of the soul itself, 

With its own mien and sceptre, and a voice 

Sweet as an angel's and as full of power. 

It sits, a bold usurper on the throne. 

What is its nature ? 'Tis a child of clay. 

And born of human passions. In its train 

Follow all things unholy — Love of Gold, 

Ambition, Pleasure, Pride of place or name, 

All that we worship for itself alone. 

All that we may not carry through the grave. 

We have made idols of these perishing things 

Till they have grown time-honor'd on their shrines, 

And all men bow to them. Yet what are they? 

What is Ambition ? 'Tis a glorious cheat ! 

Angels of light walk not so dazzlingly 

The sapphire walls of Heaven. The unsearch'd mine 

Hath not such gems. Earth's constellated thrones 

Have not such pomp of purple and of gold. 

It hath no features. In its face is set 

A mirror, and the gazer sees his own. 

It looks a god, but it is like liimself ! 

It hath a mien majestical, and smiles 

Bewilderingly sweet — but how like him ! 

It follows not with fortune. It is seen 

Rarely or never in the rich man's hall. 



I; 



i^r- 



( 2G2 ) 

It seeks the chamber of the gifted boy, 
And lifts his humble window, and comes in. 
The narrow walls expand, and spread away 
Into a kingly palace, and the roof 
Lifts to the sky, and unseen fingers work 
The ceilings with rich blazonry, and write 
His name in burning letters over all. 
And ever, as he shuts his 'wilder'd eyes, 
The phantom comes and lays upon his lids 
A spell that murders sleep, and in his ear 
Whispers a deathless word, and on his brain 
Breathes a fierce thirst no water will allay. 
He is its slave henceforth ! His days are spent 
In chaining down his heart, and watching where 
To rise by human weaknesses. His nights 
Bring him no rest in all their blessed hours. 
His kindred are forgotten or estranged. 
Unhealthful fires burn constant in his eye. 
His lip grows restless, and its smile is curl'd 
Half into scorn — till the bright, fiery boy, 
That was a daily blessing but to see. 
His spirit was so bird-like and so pure, 
Is frozen, in the very flush of youth, 
Into a cold, care-fretted, heartless man / 

And what is its reward? At best, a name! 
Praise — when the ear has grown too dull to hear ; 
Gold — when the senses it should please are dead ; 
Wreaths — when the hair they cover has grown gray ; 
Fame — when the heart it should have thrill'd is numb ; 



( 263 ) 

All things but love — when love is all we want ; 
And close behind comes Death, and ere we know 
That ev'n these unavailing gifts are ours, 
He sends us, stripp'd and naked, to the grave ! 

Is it its own reward 1 Reply to it. 
Every aspiring heart within these walls ! 
Summon the shadows of those bitter hours 
Wasted in brooding on neglect ! Recall 
The burning tears wrung from a throbbing brain 
By a proud effort foil'd ; and after all 
These agonies are number'd, rack your heart 
Back to its own self-nurtured wretchedness, 
And when the pangs are crowded into one 
Of all life's scorpion-stings, and Death itself 
Is sent or stay'd, as it would bless or curse. 
Tell me if self-misgiving torture not 
Unutterably more ! 

Yet this is all ! 
The world has no such glorious phantom else. 
The spirit that could slave itself to Gold 
Hath never drunk of knowledcfe at the well. 
And Pleasure, if the senses would expand 
And multiply with using, might delude 
The flesh-imprison'd fancv — but not lonjr. 
And earthly Love — if measured, is too tame — 
And if it drink, as in proud hearts it will, 
At the deep springs of life, is but a cloud 



(264) 

Brooding with nameless sorrow on the soul — 
A sadness — a sick-heartedness — a tear ! 

And these are the hisfh idols of this world ! 
Retreating shadows caught but at the grave — 
Mocking delusions, changing at the touch — 
Of one false spirit the false children all. 
And yet, what godlike gifts neglected lie 
Wasting and marr'd in the forgotten soul ! 
The finest workmanship of God is there. 
'Tis fleeter than the wings of light and wind ; 
'Tis subtler than the rarest shape of air ; 
Fire and wind and water do its will ; 
Earth has no secret from its delicate eye ; 
The air no alchymy it solveth not ; 
The star-writ heavens are read and understood, 
And every sparry mineral hath a name, 
And truth is recognised, and beauty felt. 
And God's own image stamp'd upon its brow. 

How is it so forgotten ? IVill it live 
When the great firmament is roll'd away ? 
Hath it a voice forever audible, 
" I AM ETERNAL !" Can it overcome 
This mocking passion-fiend, and even here 
Live like a seraph upon truth and light ? 

How can we ever be the slaves we are, 
With a sweet angel sitting in our breasts ! 
How can we creep so lowly, when our wings 



(®) — . 



( 265 ) 

Tremble and plead for freedom ! Look at him 
Who reads aright the image on his soul, 
And gives it nurture like a child of light. 
His life is calm and blessed, for his peace, 
Like a rich pearl beyond the diver's ken, 
Lies deep in his own bosom. He is pure, 
For the soul's errands are not done with men. 
His senses are subdued and serve the soul. 
He feels no void, for every faculty 
Is used, and the fine balance of desire 
Is perfect, and strains evenly, and on. 
Content dwells with him, for his mind is fed, 
And Temperance has driven out unrest. 
He heaps no gold. It cannot buy him more 
Of any thing he needs. The air of heaven 
Visits no freshlier the rich man's brow ; 
He has his portion of each silver star 
Sent to his eye as freely, and the light 
Of the blest sun pours on his book as clear 
As on the golden missal of a king. 
The spicy flowers are free to him ; the sward, 
And tender moss, and matted forest leaves 
Are as elastic to his weary feet ; 
The pictures in the fountains, and beneath 
The spreading trees, fine pencillings of light. 
Stay while he gazes on them ; the bright birds 
Know not that he is poor ; and as he comes 
From his low roof at morn, up goes the lark 
Mounting and singing to the gate of Heaven, 
And merrily away the little brook 

23 



( 266 ) 

Trips with its feet of silver, and a voice, 
Almost articulate, of perfect joy. 
Air to his forehead, water to his lips, 
Heat to his blood, come just as faithfully. 
And his own faculties as freely play. 
Love fills his voice with music, and the tear 
Springs at as light a bidding to his eye ; 
And his free limbs obey him, and his sight 
Flies on its wondrous errands everywhere. 

What does he need ? Next to the works of God 
His friends are the rapt sages of old time ; 
And they impart their wisdom to his soul 
In lavish fulness, when and where he will. 
He sits in his mean dwelling and communes 
With Socrates and Plato, and the shades 
Of all great men and holy, and the words 
Written in fire by Milton, and the King 
Of Israel, and the ti^oop of glorious bards. 
Ravish and steal his soul up to the sky — 
And what is it to him, if these come in 
And visit him, that at his humble door 
There are no pillars with rich capitals 
And walls of curious workmanship within ? 

I stand not here in Wisdom's sacred stole. 
My lips have not been touch'd with holy fire. 
An humbler office than a counsellor 
Of human duties, and an humbler place. 
Would better grace my knowledge and my years. 



^ 



( 267 ) 

I would not seem presuming. Yet have 1 
Mingled a little in this earnest world, 
And staked upon its chances, and have learn'd 
Truths that I never gather'd from my books. 
And though the lessons they have taught me seem 
Things of the wayside to the practised man, 
It is a wisdom by much wandering learn'd ; 
And if but one young spirit bend its wing 
More in the eye of Heaven because it knew 
The erring courses that bewilder'd mine, 
I have not sufFer'd, nor shall teach in vain. 

It is a lesson oftener learn'd than loved — 
All knowledge is not nourishment. The mind 
May pine upon its food. In reckless thirst 
The scholar sometimes kneels beside the stream 
Polluted by the lepers of the mind. 
The skeptic, with his doubts of all things good 
And faith in all things evil, has been there ; 
And, as the stream was mingled, he has strown 
The shore with all bright flowers to tempt the eye, 
And sloped the banks down gently for the feet ; 
And Genius, like a fallen child of lio-ht. 
Has fiU'd the place with magic, and compell'd 
Most beautiful creations into forms 
And images of license, and they come 
And tempt you with bewildering grace to kneel 
And drink of the wild waters ; and behind 
Stand the strong Passions, pleading to go in ; 
And the approving world looks silent on ; 



^M 



w- 



1^ 



( 268 ) 

Till the pleased mind conspires against itself, 

And finds a subtle reason why 'tis good. 

We are deceived, though, even as we drink, 

We taste the evil. In his sweetest tone 

The lying Tempter whispers in our ear, 

" Though it may stain, 'twill strengthen your proud wings ;" 

And in the wild ambition of the soul 

We drink anew, and dream like Lucifer 

To mount upon our daring draught to Heaven. 

I need not follow the similitude. 
Truth is vitality, and if the mind 
Be fed on poison, it J7iust lose its power. 
The vision that forever strains to err. 
Soon finds its task a habit ; and the taste 
That will own nothing true or beautiful 
Soon finds the world distorted as itself; 
And the loose mind, that feeds an appetite 
For the enticements of licentious thought, 
Contracts a leprosy that oversteals 
Its senses, like a palsy, chill, and fast. 

Another lesson with my manhood came. 
I have unlearn'd contempt. It is the sin 
That is engender'd earliest in the soul. 
And doth beset it like a poison-worm. 
Feeding on all its beauty. As it steals 
Into the bosom, you may see the light 
Of the clear, heavenly eye grow cold and dim. 
And the fine, upright glory of the brow 



@-- 



(® 



'J 



( 269 ) 

Cloud with mistrust, and the unfetter'd lip, 
That was as free and changeful as the wind- 
Even in sadness redolent of love — 
Curl'd with the iciness of a constant scorn. 
It eats into the mind till it pollutes 
All its pure fountains. Feeling, reason, taste 
Breathe of its chill corruption. Every sense 
That could convey a pleasure is benumb'd, 
And the bright human being, that was made 
Full of all warm affections, and with power 
To look through all things lovely up to God, 
Is changed into a cold and doubting fiend, 
With but one use for reason — to despise ! 

Oh, if there is one law above the rest 
Written in wisdom — if there is a word 
That I would trace as with a pen of fire 
Upon the unsunn'd temper of a child — 
If there is any thing that keeps the mind 
Open to angel visits, and repels 
The ministry of ill — 'tis human love ! 
God has made nothing worthy of contempt. 
The smallest pebble in the well of truth 
Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand 
When man's best monuments have pass'd away. 
The law of heaven is lox)e ; and though its name 
Has been usurp'd by passion, and profaned 
To its unholy uses through all time, 
Still, the eternal principle is pure ; 
And in these deep affections that we feel 

23* 



I 



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# 



( 270 ) 

Omnipotent within us, we but see 
The lavish measure in which love is given ; 
And in the yearning tenderness of a child 
For every bird that sings above his head, 
And every creature feeding on the hills, 
And every tree, and flower, and running brook, 
We see how every thing was made to love. 
And how they err, who, in a world like this. 
Find any thing to hate but human pride ! 

Oh, if we are not bitterly deceived — 
If this familiar spirit that communes 
With yours this hour — that has the power to search 
All things but its own compass — is a spark 
Struck from the burning essence of its God — 
If, as we dream, in every radiant star 
We see a shining gate through which the soul, 
In its degrees of being, will ascend — 
If, when these weary organs drop away. 
We shall forget their uses, and commune 
With angels and each othei', as the stars 
Mingle their light, in silence and in love — 
What is this fleshly fetter of a day 
That we should bind it with immortal flowers ! 
How do we ever gaze upon the sky. 
And watch the lark soar up till he is lost, 
And turn to our poor perishing dreams away. 
Without one tear for our imprison'd wings ! 



I 



(271) 



BIRTHDAY IN A FOREIGN ISLE. 

'Tis the day my mother bore her son ! 
She has thought since morn of her absent one. 
At break of day she remember'd me 
With trembling lip and bended knee ; 
And, at the hour of morning prayer, 
She has fix'd her eye on the empty chair ; 
And, as my father bow'd to pray 
For one much loved and far away, 
My mother's heart has stirr'd anew, 
And tears have gush'd her fingers through ; 
And with moving lips and low-bent head, 
Her soul to heaven has melting fled. 

Mother ! dear mother ! I've wander'd long, 
And must wander still, in these lands of song. 
My cheek is burnt with eastern suns ; 
My boyish blood more tamely runs : 
My speech is cold, my bosom seal'd ; 
My once free nature check'd and steel'd ; 
I have found the world so unlike thee ; 
I have been so forced a rock to be ; 
It has froze my heart ! — of my mother only. 
When the hours are sad, in places lonely — 
Only of thee — does a thought go by 
That leaves a tear in my weary eye : 
1 see thy smile in the clouded air ; 
I feel thy hand in my wind-stirr'd hair ; 



•^' 



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( 272 ) 

I hear thy voice, with its pleading tone, 
When else I had felt in the world alone — 
So alone, that there seem'd to be 
Only my mother 'twixt heaven and me ! 

Mother ! dear mother ! the feeling nurst 
As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain ; 
'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
And as, year by year, and day by day. 
Some friend still trusted drops away, 
Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
How the shorten'd chain brings me nearer thee ! 

Malta, Jan. 20, 1834. 



TO A BRIDE. 

[Mrs. Wm. F. O .] 

Pass thou on ! for the vow is said 
That may ne'er be broken ; 

The trembling hand hath a blessing laid 

On snowy forehead and auburn braid, 
And the word is spoken 

By lips that never their word betray'd. 

Pass thou on ! for thy human all 

Is richly given, 
And the voice that claims its holy thrall 



( 273 ) 

Must be sweeter for life than music's fall, 

And, this side heaven, 
Thy lip may never that trust recall. 

Pass thou on ! yet many an eye 

Will droop and glisten ; 
And the hushing heart in vain will try 
To still its pulse as thy step goes by, 

And we vainly listen 
For thy voice of witching melody. 

Pass thou on ! yet a sister's tone 

In its sweetness lingers, 
Like some twin echo sent back alone, 
Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown ; 

And a sister's fingers 
Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown. 

And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair, 

And our hearts awaken 
Whenever we come where their voices are — 
But oh, we shall think how musical were. 

Ere of thee forsaken, 
The mingled voices we listed there. 



(274) 



TO A COQUETTE. 

Exquisite Laura ! with thy pouting lip 

And the arch smile that makes me constant so, 
Tempting me still, like a dull bee, to sip 

The flower I should have left so long ago — 
Beautiful Laura ! who art just so fair 

That I can think thee loveliest when alone, 
And still art not so wonderfully rare 

That I could never find a prettier one — 
Fetterless Laura ! laughing, sighing, crying. 

In the same breath, and gravest with the gay 
So wild that Cupid ever shoots thee flying, 

And knows his archery is thrown away — 
Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet 
Break thy sweet chain, oh merciless coquette ! 



THE TABLE OF EMERALD. 

" Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed 
the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, 
before the flood, the secret of alchymy that gives gold at will." 

Moore's Epicurean. 

That Emerald vast of the Pyramid — 

Were I where it is laid, 
I would ask no king for his heavy crown 

As its mystic words were said. 

®ytz 7=1-. ■ ... — : — ^ (®) 



SS, 



( 275 ) 

The pomp of wealth, the show of power, 

In vain for me would shine, 
And naught that brings the mind a care 

Would win bright ojold of mine. 

Would I feast all day — revel all night — 

Laugh with a secret sadness ? 
Would I sleep away the breezy morn 

And wake to the goblet's madness ? 
Would I spend no time and no golden ore 

For the wisdom that sages knew ? 
Would I run to waste with a human mind, 

To its holy trust untrue ? 

Oh knew I the depth of that Emerald spell, 

And had I the gold it brings, 
I would never load with a feaster's joy 

My spirit's mounting wings. 
I would bind no wreath to my brow to-day. 

That would leave a stain to-morrow, 
Nor drink a draught of joy to-night 

That would change with morn to sorrow. 

But, oh ! I would burst this chain of forms, 

And be spirit and fancy-free ; 
For costly aid to my mind alone 

Should my gold be scatter'd free. 
1 would place my foot on my heaps of ore 

To mount to Wisdom's throne, 
And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine, 

To be left, of care, alone. 



(®), 



-■^^ 



( 276 ) 

Ambition ! my lip would laugh to scorn 

Thy plume and thy gleaming sword ! 
I would follow sooner a woman's eye 

Or a child's imperfect word ; 
But come with the glory of human thought, 

And the light of the scholar's brow, 
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness 

And alone at thy altar bow ! 

There was one mild eye — there was one deep tone- 

They were dear to this heart of mine ! 
Dearer to me was that mild blue eye 

Than the light on Wisdom's shrine. 
My soul brought up from its deepest cell 

The sum of its earthly love ; 
But it could not buy her wing from heaven, 

And she flew to her home above. 

That first deep love I have taken back 

In my rayless breast to hide ; 
With the tear it brought for a burning seal, 

'Twill there forever bide. 
I may stretch on now to another goal — 

I may feed my thoughts of flame — 
The tie is broken that kept me back, 

And my mind speeds on — for fame. 

But, alas ! I am dreaming as if I knew 

The spell of the tablet green ! 
I forget how like to a broken reed 

Is the hope on which I lean. 



( 277 ) 

There is nothing true of my idle dream 
But the wreck of my early love, 

And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread, 
And how can it soar above ? 



THE BROKEN BRACELET. 

'TwAS broken in the gliding dance, 

When thou wert in thy dream of power, 
When lip and motion, smile and glance 

Were lovely all — the belle's bright hour. 
The light lay soft upon thy brow. 

The music melted in thine ear, 
And one, perchance forgotten now. 

With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near. 
Marvelling not that links of gold 
A pulse like thine had not controU'd. 

'Tis midnight now — the dancers gone — 

And thou in thy rich dreams asleep; 
And I, awake, am gazing on 

The fragments given me to keep. 
I think of every glowing vein 

That ran beneath these links of gold. 
And wonder if a thrill of pain 

Made those bright channels ever cold ! 
With gifts like thine, I cannot think 
Grief ever chill'd this broken link. 

24 



( 278 ) 

Good night ! 'tis little now to ihee 

That in my ear thy words were spoken, 
And thou wilt think of them, and me, 

As long as of the bracelet broken. 
And thus is riven many a chain 

That thou hast fasten'd but to break, 
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again. 

As careless if another wake ; 
The only thought thy heart can rend 
Is — wliat the fellow HI charge to mend. 



TO JULIA GRISI, 

After hearing her in " Anna Bolena" 

When the rose is brightest. 

Its bloom will soonest die ; 
When burns the meteor brightest, 

'Twill vanish from the sky. 
If Death but wait until delight 

O'errun the heart, like wine, 
And break the cup when brimming quite, 
I die — for thou hast pour'd to-night 

The last drop into mine. 



45 



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(279 ) 



REVERIES. 



AN EARLY POEM. 



I AM an eldest son. My years 

Have been like golden moments nursed ; 
And if I ever wept, my tears 

From gentle fountains, gently burst. 
My mother's kiss came with my prayer ; 

My father's blessing with my sleep ; 
My sister's words like music were, 

And how could I have learn'd to weep ? 
I did not — and have worn a brow 
Of sunshine, even until now. 

Love comes to such like nature's law, 

As waters swelling to a gush ; 
And thus, if light or life I saw, 

My feelings to their source would rush. 
A sunny leaf, a flitting shade, 

A tint of autumn, moonlight, aught 
By which this glorious world is made 

So beautiful, my spirit caught — 
And thrilling pleasure, and strange power 

To love and to be blest rush'd by, 
And I have lived an angel's hour, 

While sadder spi»rits long'd to die. 



(®) 



( 2b0 ) 

You well might dt^ein that I should look 

On coming days, as looks the sun 
On leaf and tree, and find the book 

Of nature seem a brilliant one. 
Like him I look'd upon the side 

The light in my own eye made bright ; 
And ever found the shadows glide 

Like guilty spirits from my sight. 
What marvel then that I should build 

The dreams this loitering tale would tell. 
Of light, and that my thought should gild 

The airy elements too v/ell ? 
But it is so — and I will leave 

Tlie moral to the sad and dull, 
For 1 can never stop to grieve 

While I can find the beautiful. 

1 have lived twenty years, and feel 

The longings which come ever then, 
To try, with mind, or heart, or steel. 

Collision with my fellow-men. 
I burn to bound from beauty's thrall. 

Where others deem me idly chain'd. 
And strike my blow for aught, or all 

That o'er the universe hath reign'd. 
They call me boy — I feel the man — 

And yet will prove how deeply set 
Is that one element, " I can," 

Among the things we ne'er forget. 
'Tis time, I know, that" I was flinging 



®- 



( 281 ) 

My rosy fetters to the wind, 
And, like the desert courser, springing 

Upon the proud career of mind. 
But it is near — and with that hour 

I look to see my follies flee ; 
And sterner thoughts come on, with power 

To nerve my wakening energy. 
'Tis no fair dream — I look for trial. 

Which every quivering sinew wrings ; 
For pourings from that bitter vial. 

Which drinks to death life's swelling springs. 
But far beyond, my fancy resteth 

On deep, sublimed, and glorious worth ; 
On strength, which, like the eagle's, breasteth 

The highest atmosphere of earth. 
I look to rest — when fire hath tried, 
And much affliction purified. 

My coloring is not aye so deep — 

Anticipations sometimes come 
Like fancies in a gentle sleep. 

And pencil sketches of a home ; 
And in its delicate lines I trace 

The tenderness of gentle eyes, 
Whose molten light might be the place 

For thought's unsullied paradise. 
I feel the touch of ivory fingers 

Upon my forehead's swollen vein. 
And meet a look, whose softness lingers, 

As if it would drink up my pain. 



!l 



( 282 ) 

I hear a tone, whose silvery gush 

Thrills every fibre, sweetly spoken, 
And feel the rich tumultuous gush 

Of fountains which had else been broken. 
Beside a low bent head I kneel, 

Whose raven tresses stir with prayer. 
And hear my name, and deeply feel 

How holy is the altar there. 
And then I gaze on dewy lashes. 

And part the hair on a sweet brow, 
And watch for love's impassion'd flashes 

In eyes too serious till now. 
I lay upon the wasting bed 

Of sickness, and I watch a cheek 
Whose color at my plaint has fled, 

And count the deep blue veins that streak 
Its lily whiteness ; and I listen 

To tones that speak inquiringly, 
And feel, that as the tear-drops glisten. 

And fall upon me, I could die ; 
For I should sink into my rest. 
So utterly, supremely blest. 

182G. 



i! 



( 285 ) 



THE LADY JANE 



OR AN OLD MAID'S LOYE 



There was a lady — fair, and forty too. 

There was a youth of scarcely two and twenty. 
The story of this love is strange, yet true. 

I'll tell it you ! Romances are so plenty 
In prose, that you'll be glad of something new. 

And so I'll versify what did and meant he. 
You think he was too young ! — but tell me whether 
The moth and humming-bird grow old together ! 

II. 

Nature, that made the ivy-leaf and lily. 

Not of one warp and woof hath wove us all ! 

Bent goes the careful, and erect the silly. 

And wear and tear make diflference — not small ; 

And loveliness may drive through Piccadilly 
Changeless till fifty, if no pangs befall. 

A day's grief, out of some, a year's life washes ; 

Some shed it like ducks' backs and " Mackintoshes." 



/^^ 



m -=^.=:=z= - -B 



( 286 ) 



HI. 

The Lady Jane was daughter of an Earl — 

Shut from approach like sea-nymph in her shell. 

Never a rude breath stirr'd the floating curl. 
Upon her marble temple, and naught fell 

Upon the ear of the patrician girl 

But pride-check'd syllables, all measured well. 

Her suitors were her father's and not hers — 

So were her debts at " Storr-and-Mortimer's." 

IV. 

Her health was lady-like. No blood, in riot, 
Tangled the tracery of her veined cheek, 

Nor seem'd her exquisite repose the quiet 
Of one by suffering made sweet and meek. 

She ate and drank, and probably lived by it, 
And liked her cup of tea by no means weak ! 

Untroubled by debt, lovers, or aflliction, 

Her pulse beat with extremely little friction. 

V. 

Yet was there fire within her soft gray eye, 
And room for pressure on her lip of rose ; 

And few who saw her gracefully move by. 
Imagined that her feelings slept, or froze. 

You may have seen the cunning florist tie 
A thread about a bud, which never blows, 

But, with shut chalice from the sun and rain, 

Hoards up the morn — and such the Lady ,!;iiie. 



■m 



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( ^^87 ) 

VI. 

The old lord had had offers for her hand, 
To which he answer'd — by his secretary. 

And, doubtless, some were for the lady's land, 
The men being old and valetudinary ; 

But there were others who were all unmann'd, 
And fell into a life of wild vagary. 

In their despair. To tell his daughter of it, 

The cold Earl thought would be but little profit. 

VII. 

And so she bloom'd— all fenced around with care ; 

And none could find a way to win or woo her. 
When visible at home — the Earl was there ! 

Abroad — her chaperon stuck closely to her ! 
She was a sort of nun in open air. 

Known to but few, and intimate with fewer : 
And, always used to conversation guarded. 
She thought all men talk'd just as her papa did. 

VIII. 

Pause while you read, oh, Broadway 'demoiselle ! 

And bless your stars that long before you marry, 
You are a judge of passion pleaded well ! 

For you have listen'd to Tom, Dick, and Harry, 
And, if kind Heaven endow'd you for a belle, 

At least your destiny did not miscarry ! 
" You've had your fling"— and now, all wise and steady, 
For matrimony's cares you're cool and ready ! 



^M 



( 289 ) 



IX. 

And yet the bloom upon the fruit is fair ! 

And " ignorance is bliss" in teaching love ! 
And guarding lips, when others have been there, 

Is apt uneasy reveries to move ! 
I really think mammas should have a care ! 

And though of nunneries I disapprove, 
'Tis easier to make blushes hear to reason 
Than to unteach a " Saratoga Season." 



X. 

In France, where, it is said, they wiser are, 
Miss may not walk out, even with her cousin ; 

And when she is abroad from bolt and bar, 

A well-bred man should be to her quite frozen ; 

And so at last, like a high-priced attar 
Hermetically seal'd in silk and resin, 

She is deliver'd safe to him who loves her ; 

And then — with whom she will she's hand and glove, sir ! 

XI. 

I know this does not work well, and that ours 

Are the best wives on earth. They love their spouses, 

Who prize them — as you do centennial flowers, 

For having bloom'd, though not in your green-houses. 

'Tis a bold wooer that dare talk of dowers. 
And where I live, the milking of the cows is 

Too rude a task for females ! Well. 'Twould hurt you, 

Where women are so prized, to sneer at virtue. 



( 289 ) 

XII. 

« Free-born Americans," they must have freedom ! 

They'll stay— if they have leave to run away. 
They're ministering angels when you need 'em, 

But 'specially want credit ia Broadway. 
French wives are more particular how you feed 'em, 

The English drag you oftener to the play. 
But ours we quite enslave — (more true than funny) — 
With " heaven-born liberty," and trust— or money ! 

XIII. 

Upon her thirtieth birth-day. Lady .Tane 

Thought sadly on the twenties ! Even the Heens, 

That she had said farewell to, without pain — 

Leaves falling from a flower that nothing means — 

Seem'd worth regathering to live again ; 

But not like Ruth, fares Memory, who gleans 

After the careful Harvester of years : — 

The Lady Jane thought on't with bitter tears ! 



XIV. 



She glided to her mirror. From the air 
Glided to meet her, with its tearful eyes, 

A semblance sad, but beautifully fair ; 

And gradually there stole a sweet surprise 

Under her lids, and as she laid the hair 
Back from her snowy brow, Madonna-wise, 

" Time, after all," she said, " a harmless flirt is !" 

And from that hour took kindly to her thirties. 



25 



S^ 



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"(®) 



ii 
(200 ) 

XV. 

And, with his honors not at all unsteady, 

The Decimal elect stepp'd coolly in ; 
And having all his nights and mornings ready, 

He'd very little trouble to begin. 
And Twenty was quite popular, — they said he 

Went out of office with so little din ! 
The old Earl ^ did not celebrate (nor ought ho) 
Her birth-days more. And like a dream came Forty. 

XVI. 

And on the morn of it she stood to dress, 

Mock'd by that flattering semblance, as before, 

And lifted with a smile the raven tress. 

That, darkening her white shoulder, swept the floor. 

Time had not touch'd her dazzling loveliness ! 
" Yet is it time," she said, " that I give o'er — 

Pni an old maid I — and though I suffer by it, I 

Must change my style and leave off gay society." 



55 



XVII. 

And so she did. Her maid by her desire 

Comb'd her luxuriant locks behind her ears ; 

She had her dresses alter'd to come hio-her. 
Though it dissolved the dress-maker in tears ! 

And flung a new French hat into the fire, 

Which she had bought, " forgetful of lier years." 

This t' anticipate " the world's dread laugh !" 

Most persons think too much of it, by half. 



®- 



r-ri^ 



( 291 ) 



XVIII. 



.) 



I do not mean to say that generally 

The " virtuous single" take too soon to tea ; 

But now and then you find one who could rally 
At forty, and go back to twenty-three— 

A handsome, plump, affectionate " Aunt Sally," 
With no taste for cats, flannel, and Bohea ! 

And I would have her, spite of " he or she says. 

Up heart, and pin her kerchief as she pleases. 



XIX. 

Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat — 
Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare. 

Some like a lameness. (I have known one that 
Would go quite far enough for your despair, 

And halt in time.) Some like them delicate 
As lilies, and with some "the only wear" 

Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman. 

Some oi)ly like wljat pleased another man. 

XX. 

I like one that likes me. But there's a kind 

Of women, very dangerous to poets. 
Whose hearts beat with a truth that seems like mind- 

A nature that, though passionate, will show its 
Devotion by not being rash or blind ; 

But by sweet study grows to love. And so it's 
Not odd if they are counted cold, though handsome, 
And never meet a man who understands 'em. 



■m 



li^ 



( 292 ) 

xxr. 

B} never I mean late in life. *But ah ! 

How exquisite their love and friendship then ! 
Povennial of soul such women are, 

And readers of the hearts of gifted men ; 
And as the deep well mourns the hidden star, 

And mirrors the first ray that beams again, 
"■^"hey — be the loved light lost or dimly burning, 
Feel all its clouds, and trust its bright returning. 

XXII. 

In outward seeming tranquil and subdued, 

Their hearts beneath beat youthfully and fast. 

Time and imprison 'd love make not a prude ; 
And warm the gift we know to be the last ; 

And pure is the devotion that must brood 
Upon your hopes alone — for hers are past ! 

Trust me, " a rising man" rose seldom higher. 

But some dear, sweet old maid has pull'd the wire. 

XXIII. 

The Lady Jane, (pray do not think tliat hers 
Was quite the character I've drawn above. 

Old maids, like young, have various calibres. 

And hers was moderate, though she was " a love,") 

The Lady Jane call'd on the dowagers — 
Mainly her slight acquaintance to improve, 

But partly with a docile wish to know 

What solaces of age were comme il faut. 



% 



^ 



-.f« 



( 293 ) 

XXIV. 

They stared at her plain hat and air demure, 
But answer'd her with some particularity ; 

And she was edified you may be sure, 
And added vastly to her popularity. 

She found a dozen mad on furniture, 

Five on embroidery, and none on charity ; 

But her last call — the others were but short ones — • 

Turn'd out to Lady Jane of some importance. 

XXV. 

The door was open'd by a Spanish page — 
A handsome lad in green with bullet buttons. 

Who look'd out like a trulian from a cage, 

And deign'd to glance at the tall menial but once, 

Then bent, with earnestness beyond his age. 

His eyes, (you would have liked to see them shut onco, 

The fringes were so long) — on Lady Jane. 

The varlet clearly thought her not so plain. 

XXVI. 

And bounding u.p the flower-laden stair. 

He waited her ascent, then open flung 
A mirror, clear as 'twere a door of air. 

Which on its silver hinge with music swunn; — 
Contrived that never foot should enter there 

Unheralded by that melodious tongue. 
This delicate alarum is worth while 
More 'specially with carpets of three-pile. 



P__ ^ ^ _ {^ 



( 291 ) 



XXVII. 

Beyond a gallery extended, cool, 

And softly lighted, and, from dome to floor, 
Hung pictures — mostly the Venetian school ; 

Each " worth a Jew's eye" — very likely more ; 
And drapery, gold-broider'd in Stamboul, 

Closed the extremity in lieu of door : 
This the page lifted, and disclosed to view 
The boudoir of the Countess Pasibleu. 

XXVIII. 

It was a small pavilion lined with pink, — 

Mirrors and silk all, save the door and sky-lighl, 

The latter of stain'd glass. (You would not think 
How juvenescent is a rosy high light !) 

Upon the table were seen pen and ink, 

(Two things I cannot say have stood in my light,) 

Amid a host of trinkets, toys, and fans ; 

The table in the style of Louis Quinze. 

XXIX. 

A singular and fragile little creature 

Upon the cushions indolently lay, 
With waning life in each transparent feature. 

But youth in her bright lips' ethereal play ; 
In short, the kind of creature that would meet your 

Conception of a transmigrating fay — 
The dark eyes, not at all worn out or weary. 
Kindling for transfer to some baby Peri ! 



-m 



( 295 ) 

XXX. 

The rest used up, past mending. Yet her tones 
Were wildly, deeply, exquisitely clear ; 

Though voice is not a thing of flesh and bones, 
And probably goes up while they stay here. 

Not to imply that nasal Smith and Jones 

Will twang as usual in the " bitter sphere," — 

But tones there be which must (the Lord assoil them !) 

Bewitch as they do here, or heaven will spoil them. 

XXXI. 

Her person was dress'd very like her soul — 

In fine material most loosely worn. 
A cobweb cashmere struo^fjled to control 

Ringlets that laugh'd the filmy folds to scorn, 
And, from the shawls in which she nestled, stole 

The smallest slipper ever soil'd or torn. 
You would not guess her age by looking at her, 
Nor, from my sketch, of course. We'll leave that mat'er 



XXXII. 



" My dear !" the Countess said, (by this time she 

Had ceased the Weather, poor old man, to hammer — 

He gets it, in these morning calls, pardie ! 
And Lady Jane had hinted with a stammer 

Her errand — somewhat delicate, you see,) 
" My dear, how very odd ! T fear I am a 

Poor judge of age — (who made that funny bonnet ?) 

Indeed, I always turn'd my back upon it ! 



I 
i®5l 



-i4. 



( 29G ) 

XXXIII. 

'' Time has no business in one's house, my dear ! 

I'm not at home to any of my creditors. 
Tlicy send their nasty bills in, once a year. 

And Time's are like Mortality's — mere ' dead letters.' 
Besides, what comfort is there livincr here, 

If every stupid hour's to throw Death's head at us ? 
(Lend me a pin, dear !) Time at last will stop us : 
But, come to ll^at — we're free, by habeas corpus. 

XXXIV. 

(" Fie, what a naughty shawl ! No expose, 

I trust, love, eh ? Hold there, thou virtuous pin !) 

And so you really have come out to-day 
To look you up some suitable new sin !" 

" Oh, Countess !" " Did you never write a play ? 
Nor novel ? Well, you really should I)egin ! 

For, (hark, my dear !) the publishers are biters, 

Not at the book's fine title — but the writer's. 

XXXV. 

"You're half an authoress ; for, as my maid says, 
' Begun's half done,' and you've your title writ. 

I quote from Colburn, and as what ' the trade' says 
Is paid for, it is well-consider'd wit. 

Genius, undoubtedly, of many grades is, 
But as to us, we do not need a bit. 

'Three volumes,' says the bargain, 'not too thin.' 

You don't suppose I'd throw him genius in !" 



I 



-m 



( 297 ) 

XXXVI. 

" But fame, clear Countess !" At the word there flush'd 

A color to her cheek like fever's glow, 
And in her hand unconsciously she crush'd 

The fringes of her shawl, and bending low 
To hide the tears that suddenly had gush'd 

Into her larcre, dark eves, she murmur'd " No ! 
Th' inglorious agony of conquering pain 
Has drunk that dream up. I have lived in vain ! 

XXXVII. 

" Yet have I set my soul upon the string, 

Tense with the energy of high desire, 
And trembled with the arrow's quivering spring, 

To launch upon ambition's flight of fire ! 
And never lark so hush'd his heart to sing, 

Or, as he sang, nerved wing to bear it higher, 
As I have striven my wild heart to tame 
And melt its love, pride, passion — into fame ! 

XXXVIII. 

"Oh, poor the flattery to call it mine 

For trifles which beguiled an hour of pain, 

Or, on the echoing heels of mirth and wine, 

Crept through the chambers of a throbbing brain. 

Worthily, have I never written line ! 
And when they talk to me of' fame 1 gain, 

In very bitterness of soul I mock it, — 

And put the nett proceeds into my pocket ! 



'^^- 



v^ 



g) ■ :^ ^= r^_-_:=r-_T=r_-...:.^z=:^:^=^^:=,^ 



( -298 ) 



XXXIX. 



" And so, my dear, — let not the market vary, — 
I bid the critics, pro and con, defiance ; 

And then I'm fond of being literary. 

And have a tenderness for ' sucking lions.' 

My friend the Dutchess has a fancy dairy : — 
Cheeses or poets, curds or men of science — 

It comes to the same thing. But, truce to mocking- 

Suppose you try my color in a stocking !" 

XL. 

I need not state the ratiocination 

By which the Lady Jane had so decided — 
Not quite upon the regular vocation — 

Of course you knew she was too rich (or / did) 
To care with Costard for " remuneration ;" 

But feeling that her life like Lethe glided, 
She thought 'twould be advisable to bag her a 
Few brace of rapids from her friend's Niagara. 

XLI. 

" Well, Countess ! what shall be my premier pas ? 

Must I propitiate the penny-a-liners ? 
Or would a ' sucking lion' stoop so far 

As to be fed and petted by a dry nurse ? 
I cannot shine — but I can see a star — 

Are there not worshippers as well as shiners ? 
I will be ruled implicitly by you : — 
My stocking's innocent — how dye it blue .?" 



'^^ 



( 299 ) 

XLTI. 

The Countess number'd on her fingers, musing: — 
" I've several that I might make you over, 

And not be inconsolable at losing ; 

But, really, as you've neither spouse nor lover, 

'Most any of my pets would be amusing, 
Particularly if you're not above a 

Discreet flirtation. Are you ? How's the Earl ? 

Does he still treat you like a little girl ? 

XLIII. 

" Flow do you see your visitors ? Alone ? 

Docs the Earl sleep at table after dinner ? 
Have you had many lovers ? Dear me ! None ? . 

Was not your father something of a sinner ? 
Who is the nicest man you've ever known ? 

Pray, does the butler bring your letters in, or 
First take them to the Earl ? Is he not rather 
A surly dog ? — the butler, not your father." 

XLIV. • 

To these inquiries the Lady Jane 

Replied with nods, or something as laconic, 

For on the Countess rattled, might and main. 
With a rapidity Napoleonic ; 

Then mused and said, " 'Twill never do, it's plain — 
The poet must be warranted Platonic ! 

But, query — how to find you such an oddity ? 

My dear, they all make love ! — it's their commodity ! 



I 



-— — \l<.^ 



^) - — ^^ =^ p) 

( 300 ) 



XLV. 

" The poet's on the look-out for a scene — 

The painter for a ' novel situation ;' 
And either does much business between 

The little pauses of a declaration — 
Noting the way in which you sob or lean, 

Or use your handkerchief in agitation. 
I've known one — making love like Roderick Random- 
Get off his knees and make a memorandum ! 

XLVI. 

"You see they're always ready for their trade, 
And have a speech as pat as a town-crier ; 

And so, my dear, I'm naturally afraid 
To trust you with these gentlemen-on-fire. 

I knew a most respectable old maid 

A dramatist made love to — ;just to try her ! 

She hang'd herself, of course — but in that way 

He got some pretty touches for his play. 

XLVII. 

"How shall wo manage it ? I say, with tears, 
I've only tvio that are not rogues at bottom ; 

And one of these would soon be ' over ears' 
In love with you, — but that he hasn't got 'em ! 

They were cut off by the New Zealanders — 
(As he invariably adds) ' 'od-rot-'em !' 

(Meaning the savages.) He's quite a poet, 

(Fie wears his hair so that you wouldn't know it,) 



(»))j:^ 



(301) 



XLVIII. 



" In his ideas, I mean. (I really am at a 

Stand-still abou. you.) Well— this man, one day, 

Took in his head to own the earth's diameter, 
From zenith through to nadir / (They do say 

He kill'd his wife — or threw a ham at her — 
Or something — so he had to go away — 

That's neither here nor there.) His name is Wieland, 

And under him exactly lies New Zealand. 

XLIX. 

" I'm not certain if his ' seat' 's, or no, 

In the Low Countries. But the sky above it 

Of course is his ; and for some way below 
He has a right to dig and to improve it ; 

But under him, a million miles or so. 

Lies land that's not his,— and the law can't move it. 

It cut poor Wieland's nadir off, no doubt — 

And so he sail'd to buy the owner out. 

L. 

'• I never quite made out the calculation — 
rUit plump against his cellar floor, bin 2, 

He found a tribe had built their habitation. 
Whose food was foreigners and kangaroo. 

They would sell out — but, to his consternation, 
They charged him — all the fattest of his crew ! 

At last they caught and roasted every one — 

But he escaped by being under-done !" 

26 



-(M 



\v 



( 302 ) 

LI. 

That such a lion was well worth his feed, 
Confess'd with merry tears the Lady Jane ; 

But, that he answer'd to her present need, 
(A literary pet,) was not so plain. 

She thought she'd give the matter up, indeed, 
Or turn it over and so call again. 

However, as her friend had mention'd two, 

Perhaps the other might be made to do. 

LII. 

" I'm looking," said the Countess, " for a letter 
From my old playmate, Isabella Gray. 

'Tis Heaven knows how long since I have met her ; 
She ran away and married one fine day — 

Poor girl ! She might have done a great deal better ! 
The boy that she has sent to me, they say, 

Is Imndsome, and has talents very striking : 

So young, too — you can spoil him to your liking. 

LIII. 

" Her letter will amuse vou. You must know 

That, from her marriage-day, her lord has shut her 

Securely up in an old French chateau ; 

Where, with her children and no woman but her. 

He plays the old school gentleman ; and so 

Her worldly knowledge stopp'd at bread and butter. 

She thinks I may be changed by time — for, may be, 

I've lost a tooth or got another baby. 



rr 



®) iz: 



( 303 ) 

LIV. 

" Heigh-ho ! — 'tis evident we're made of clay, 
And harden unless kept in tears and sliade ; 

This fashionable sunshine dries away 
Much that we err in losing, I'm afraid ! 

I wonder what my guardian angels say 
About the sort of woman I have made ! 

I wish I could begin my life again ! 

What think you of Pythagoras, Lady Jane ?" 

LV. 

The Countess, all this while, was running over 
The pages of a letter, closely cross'd : — 

" I wish," she said, " my most devoted lover 
Took half the trouble that this scrawl has cost ! 

Though some of it is quite a flight above a 

Sane woman's comprehension. Tut ! Where was't ! 

There is a passage here — the name's Beaulevres— 

His chateau's in the neighborhood of Sevres. 

LVI. 

" The boy's call'd Jules. Ah, here it is !* My child 
Brings you this letter. Fve not much to say 

More than you know of him, if he has smiled 
When you have seen him. In his features play 

The light from which his soul has been beguiled — 
The blessed Heaven I lose with him to-day. 

I ask you not to love him — he is there ! 

And you have loved him — without loisli or prayer f 



( 3H ) 

LVII. 

His father sends him forth for fame and gold — 
An angel on this errand ! I have striven 

Asainst it — hut he is not mine to hold. 

They say His lorong to luish to stay him, even, 

And that my pride^s poor — 7?iy ambition cold ! 
Alas ! to get lujn only hack to Heaven 

Is my one jjassionate prayer / Think me not wild- 

' Tis that I have an angel for my child / 

LVIII. 

They say that he has genius. I hut see 
That he gets tvisdom as the flower gets hue, 

While others hive it like the toiling hee ; 

That, with him, all things heautiful keep new, 

And every morn the first morn seems to he — 
So freshly look abroad his eyes of blue ! 

What he has written seems to me no more 

Than I have thought a thousand times hefore ! 

LIX. 

Yet not upon his gay career to Fame 
Broods my forehoding tear. I wish it won — 

My ])rayer speeds on his spirit to his aim — 
But in his chamher loait I for my son / — 

When darkenHl is amhition^s star of fame — 
When the night's fever of unrest is on — 

With the unhidden sadness, the sliarp care, 

I fly from his bright hours, to meet him there ! 



m 



( 305 ) 

LX. 

• 

Forgive me if 1 prate ! IsH much — isH wild — 
To hope — to pray — that you mil sometimes creep 

To the dream-liaunted pilloiv of my child. 
Keeping sweet watch ahove his fitful sleep ? 

Blest like his mother, if in dream he smiled, 
Or, f he wept, still blest with Mm to weep ; 

Rewarded — oh, for how much more than this / — 

By his awaking smile — his morning kiss ! 

LXI. 

I know not how to stop f He leaves me loell ; 

Life, spirit, health, in all his features speak ; 
His foot hounds with the spritig of a gazelle ; 

But watch him — stay ! well thought on ! — there^s a streak 
Which the first faltering of his tongue will tell. 

Long ere the bright blood loavers on his cheek — 
A little bursted vein, that, near his heart, 
Looks like a crimson thread half torn apart, 

LXII. 

So, trusting not his cheek by morning light, 
When hope sits mantling on it, seek his bed 

In the more tranquil watches of the night. 

And ask this tell-tale how his heart has sped. 

If well — its branching tracery shows bright ; 
But if its sanguine hue look cold and dead. 

Ah, Gertrude f let your ministering be 

As you would answer it, in heaven, to me /" 

as* 



( ^OJ ) 

LXIII. 

Enter the page : — " Miiadi's maid is waiting !" — 
A hint, (that it was time to dress for dinner,) 

Which puts a stop in London to all prating. 
As far as goes the letter you're a winner, 

The rest of it to flannel shirts relating — 

AVhen Jules should wear his thicker, when his thinner. 

The Countess laugh'd at Lady Jane's adieu : 

She thought the letter touching. Pray, d'jn't you ? 

LXIV. 

I have observed that Heaven, in answering pruver, 
(This is not meant to be a pious stanza — 

Only a fact that has a pious air.) 

(We're very sure, I think, to have an answpi ;) 

But I've observed, I would remark, that where 
Our plans are ill-contrived, as oft our plans pir 

Kind Providence goes quite another way 

To bring about the end for which we pray. 

LXV. 

In this connection I would also add, 

That a discreet young angel, {bona Jide^) 
I Accompanied our amiable lad ; 

And that he walk'd not out, nor stepp'd aside he, 

Nor met with an adventure, good or bad, 
(Although he enter'd London on a Friday,) 

Nor ate, nor drank, nor closed his eye a minute. 

Without this angel's guiding finger in it. 



{®)\z=:z:z 



( 307 ) 

LXVl. 

His mother, as her letter seems to show, 
Expected him, without delay or bother, — 

Portmanteau, carpet-bag, and all — to go 

Straight to her old friend's house— (forsooth ! what other!) 

The angel, who would seem the world to know, 
Advised the boy to drive to Mivart's rathei : 

He did. The angel, (as I trust is plain,) 

Lodged in the vacant heart of Lady Jane. 

LXVII. 

A month in town these gentlemen had been 
At date of the commencement of my story. 

The angel's occupations you have seen. 

If you have read what I have laid before ye. 

Jules had seen Dan O'Connell and the Queen, 
And girded up his loins for fame and glory, 

And changed his old integuments for better ; 

And then he call'd and left his mother's letter. 

Lxvm. 

That female hearts grow never old in towns — 
That taste grows rather young with dissipation — 

That dowagers dress not in high-neck'd gowns — 
Nor are, at fifty, proof against flirtation — 

That hospitality is left to clowns. 

Or elbow'd from the world by ostentation — 

That a " tried friend" should not be tried again— 

That boys at seventeen are partly men — 



m 



-dig, 



( 308 ) 

LXIX. 

Are truths, as pat as paving-stones, in cities. 

The contrary is true of country air ; 
(Where the mind rusts, which is a thousand pities, 

While still the cheek keeps fresh and debonnair.) 
But what I'm trying in tliis verse to hit is, 

That Heaven, in answering Jules's mother's prayer, 
Began by thwarting all her plans and suavities ; 
As needs must — vide the just-named depravities- 

LXX. 

Some stanzas back, we left the ladies going. 
At six, to dress for dinner. Time to dine 

I always give in poetry, well knowing 
That, to jump over it in half a line, 

Looks, (let us be sincere, dear muse !) like showing 
Contempt we do not feel, for meat and wine. 

Dinner ! Ye Gods ! What is there more respectable ! 

For eating, who, save Byron, ever check'd a belle ! 

LXXI. 

'Tis ten — say half-past. Lady Jane has dined. 

And dress'd as simply as a lady may. 
A card lies on her table " To Remind" — 

'Tis odd she never thought of it to-day. 
But she is pleasantly surprised to find 

'Tis Friday night, the Countess's soiree. 
Back rolls the chariot to Berkely Square. 
If you have dined, dear reader, let's go there ! . 



^ 



( 309) 

LXXII. 

We're early. In the cloak-room smokes the urn, 
The house-keeper behind it, fat and solemn ; 

Steady as stars the fresh-lit candles burn, 

And on the stairs the new-blown what d'ye-call 'em 

Their nodding cups of perfume overturn ; 
The page leans idly by a marble column, 

And stiffly a tall footman stands above. 

Looking between the fingers of his glove. 

LXXIII. 

All bright and silent, like a charmed palace — 

The spells wound up, the fays to come at twelve ; 

The house-keeper a witch, [cum grano salts ;) 
The handsome page, perhaps, a royal elve 

Condemn'd to servitude by fairy malice ; 

(I wish the varlet had these rhymes to delve !) 

Some magic hall, it seems, for revel bright, 

And Lady Jane the spirit first alight. 

LXXIV. 

Alas ! here vanishes the foot of Pleasure ! 

She — like an early guest — goes in before. 
And comes, when all are gone, for Memory's treasure ; 

But is not found upon the crowded floor ; 
(Unless, indeed, some charming woman says you're 

A love, which makes close quarters less a bore.) 
I've seen her, down Anticipation's vista. 
As lar^re as life — and walk'd straii];ht on, and miss'd her ! 



, j^V. . ^. .V j^. 



\.<a'))~- 



^- 






(310) 

LXXV. 

With a declining taste for making friends, 
One's taste for the fatigue of pleasure's past ; 

And then, one sometimes wonders which transcends — 
The first hour of a gay night, or the last. 

(Beginners '' burn the candle at both ends," 
And find the middh brightest — that is fast !) 

But a good rule at parties, (to keep up a 

Mercurial air,) is to come in at supper. 

LXXVI. 

I mean that you should go to bed at nine 

And sleep till twelve — take coffee or grteen tea, 

Dress and go out — (tliis was a way of mine 
When looking up the world in '33) — 

Sup at the ball — (it's not a place for wine) — 
Sleep, or not, after, as the case may be. 

You've the advantage, thus, when all are yawning, 

Of growing rather fresher toward morning. 

LXXVII. 

But, after thirty, Kerens your best " Elixir :" 

Breakfast betimes. Do something worth your while 

By twelve or one — (thn makes the blood run quick, sir \^ 
Dine with some man or woman wlio wUl smile. 

Have little cause to care how politics are, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your" bile ; 

And, if well-married, rich, and not too clever, | 

I don't sec why you shouldn't live forever. j 



:=^-::r^::::^l^ 



(311) 

LXXVIII. 

Short-lived is your " sad dog" — and yet, we b.car, 
" Whom the gods love die young." Of course the ladies 

Are safe in loving what the gods hold dear ; 
And the result, I'm very much afraid, is. 

That if he " has his day," it's " neither here 
Nor there !" But it is time our hero made his 

Appearance on the carpet. Lady Jane — 

(I'll mend this vile pen, and begin again.) 



LXXIX. 

The Lady Jane walk'd thro' the bright rooms, breaking 
The glittering silence with her flowing dress. 

Whose pure folds seem'd a coy resistance making 
To the fond air ; while, to her loveliness 

The quick-eyed mirrors breathlessly awaking. 
Acknowledged not one radiant line the less 

That not on them she look'd before she faded ! 

Neglected gentlemen don't do as they did : — 

LXXX. 

No ! — for, 'twixt our quicksilver and a woman. 
Nature has put no glass, for non-conductor, 

And, while she's imaged in their bosoms, few men 
Can make a calm, cold mirror their instructor ; 

For, when beloved, we deify what's human — 

When piqued, we mock like devils! But I've pluck'd a 

Digression here. It's no use, my contending — 

Fancy will ramble while the pen is mending ! 



W 



( 312 ) 



LXXXI. 



A small room on the left, (I'll get on faster 

If you're impatient,) very softly lit 
By lamps coneeal'd in bells of alabaster, 

Lipp'd like a lily, and " as while as it," 
With a sweet statue by a famous master, 

Just in the centre, (but not dress'd a bit !) 
This dim room drew aside our earlv-comer, 
Who thought it like a moonlight night in summer. 

LXXXI I. 

And so it was. For, through an opening door, 
Came the soft breath of a conservatory. 

And, bending its tall stem the threshold o'er. 
Swung in a crimson flower, the tropics' glory ; 

And, as you gazed, the vista lengthen'd more. 

And statues, lamps, and flowers — but, to my story ! 

The room was cushion'd like a Bey's divan ; 

And in it — (Heaven preserve us !) — sat a man ! 

LXXXIII. 

At least, as far as boots and pantaloons 

Are symptoms of a man, there seem'd one there — 
Whatever was the number of his Junes. 

She look'd again, and started ! In a chair, 
Sleeping as if his eyelids had been moons. 

Reclined, with flakes of sunshine in his hair, 
((^r, what look'd like it,) a fair youth, quite real, 
Biil of a boaulv like the Greek ideal. 



f^ 



(313) 



LXXXIV. 

He slept, like Love by slumber overtaken, 
His bow unbent, his quiver thrown aside ; 

The lip might to a manlier arch awaken — 
The nostril, so serene, dilate with pride : 

But now he lay, of all his masks forsaken. 

And childhood's sleep was there, and naught beside ; 

And his bright lips lay smilingly apart, 

Like a torn crimson leaf with pearly heart. 

LXXXV. 

Now Jules Beaulevres, Esq. — (this was he) — 
Had never been " put up" to London hours ; 

And thinking he was simply ask'd to tea, 

Had been, since seven, looking at the flowers — 

No doubt extremely pleasant, — but, you see, 
A great deal of it rather overpowers ; 

And possibly, that very fine exotic 

He sat just under, was a slight narcotic. 

LXXXVI. 

At aity rate, when it was all admired, — 

As quite his notion of a heaven polite, 
{Minus the angels,) — he felt very tired — 

As one, who'd been all day sight-seeing, might ! 
And having by the Countess been desired 

To make himself at home, he did so, quite. 
He begg'd his early coming might not fetter lier, 
And she went out to dine, the old — etcetera. 

2/ 



i 
I 

I 



^- 



[ 314 ) 

LXXXVII. 

And tiiinking of his mother — and his bill 
At Mivart's — and of all the sights amazing 

Of which, the last few days, he'd had his fill — 
And choking when he thought of fame — and gazing 

Upon his varnish'd boots, (as young men will,) 

And wond'ring iiow the shops could pay for glazing — 

And also, (here his thoughts were getting dim,) 

Whether a certain smile was meant for him — 

LXXXVIII. 

And murm'ring over, with a drowsy bow, 

The speech he made the Countess, when he met her, 
And smiling, with closed eyelids, (thinking how 

He should describe her in the morrow's letter) — 
And sighing " Good-night !" (he was dreaming now) — 

Jules dropp'd into a world lie liked much better ; 
But left his earthly mansion unprotected : 
Well," sir ! 'twas robb'd — as might have been expected ! 

LXXXIX. 

The Lady Jane gazed on the fair boy sleeping,' 
And in his lips' rare beauty read his name ; 

And to his side with breathless wonder creeping, 
Resistless to her heart the feeling came. 

That, to her yearning love's devoted keeping, 
Was given the gem within that fragile frame. 

And bending, with almost a mother's bliss. 

To his bright lips, she seal'd it with a kiss ! 



® -- 



( 315 ) 

xc. 

Oh, in that kiss how much of heaven united ! 

What haste to pity — eagerness to bless ! 
What thirsting of a heart, long pent and slighted. 

For something fair, yet human, to caress ! 
How fathomless the love so briefly plighted ! 

What kiss thrill'd ever more — sinn'd ever less ! 
So love the angels, sent with holy mercies ! 
And so love poets — in their early verses ! 

xci. 

If, in well-bred society, (" hear ! hear !") 

If, in this " wrong and pleasant" world of ours 

There bpats a pulse that seraphs may revere — 
If Eden's birds, when frighted from its flowers, 

Clung to one deathless seed, still blooming here — 
If Time cut ever down, 'mid blighted hours, 

A bliss that will spring up in bliss again — * 

'Tis woman's love. This I believe. Amen ! 

XCII. 

To guard from ill, to help, watch over, warn — 
To learn, for his sake, sadness, patience, pain — 

To seek him with most love when most forlorn — 
Promised the mute kiss of the Lady Jane. 

And thus, in sinless purity is born, 

Alway, the love of woman. So, again, 

I say, that up to kissing — later even — 

A woman's love may take its fire from heaven. 

85* 






®j. 



( 'HO ) 

XCIII. 

Jules open'cl (at the kiss) his large blue eyes, 
And calmly gazed upon the face above him, 

But never stirr'd, and utter'd no surprise — 
Althoush his situation well mii^ht move him. 

He seem'd so cool, (my lyre shall tell no lies,) 

That Lady Jane half thought she shouldn't love hini ; 

When suddenly the Countess Pasibleu 

Enter'd the room with " Dear me ! how d'ye do ?" 

xciv. 

Up sprang the boy — amazement on his brow ! 

But the next instant, through his lips there crept 
A just awakening smile, and, with a bow. 

Calmly he said : " 'Tvvas only while I slept 
The angels did not vanish — until now." 

A speech, I think, quite worthy an adept. 
The Countess stared, and Lady Jane began 
To fear that she had kiss'd a nice young man. 

xcv. 

Jules had that precious quality call'd tact ; 

And having made a very warm beginning, 
He suddenly grew grave, and rather back'd ; 

As if incapable of further sinning. 
'Twas well he did so, for, it is a fact. 

The ladies like, themselves, to do tlie winning. 
In female Shakspeares, Desdemonas shine ; 
And the Othellos " seriously incline." 



c®) ■- 



i ! 



(317) 



XCVI. 



So, with a manner quite reserved and plain, 
Jules ask'd to be presented, and then made 

Many apologies to Lady Jane 

For the eccentric part that he had play'd. 

Regretted he had slept— confess'd with pain 
He took her for an angel— was afraid 

He had been rude— abrupt— did he alarm 

Her much ?— and might he offer her his arm ? 

XCVIl. 

And as they ranged that sweet conservatory. 
He heeded not the flowers he walk'd among : 

But such an air of earnest listening wore he, 
That a dumb statue must have, found a tongue ; 

And like a child that hears a fairy stoiy, 
His parted lips upon her utterance hung. 

He seem'd to know by instinct, (else how was it ?) 

That people love the bank where they deposit. 

^ 

XCVIII. 

And closer, as the moments faster wore, 

The slender arm within her own she press'd ; 

And yielding to the magic spell he bore— 
The earnest truth upon his lips imprcss'd— 

She lavishly iold out the golden ore 

Hoarded a life-time in her guarded breast. 

And Jules, throughout, was beautifully tender— 

Although he did not always comprehend her. 



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( 318 ) 



XCIX. 



And this in him was no deep calculation, 

But in good truth, as well as graceful seeming, 

Abandonment complete to admiration — 

His soul gone from him as it goes in dreaming. 

I wish'd to make this little explanation. 

Misgiving that his tact might go for scheming ; 

I can assure you it was never plann'd ; 

I have it from his angel, (second hand.) 

c. 

And from the same authentic source I know. 
The Lady Jane still thought him but a lad ; 

Though why the dense she didn't treat him so, 
Is quite enough to drive conjecture mad ! 

Perhaps she thought that it would make him grow 
To take more beard for granted than he had. 

A funny friend to lend a nice young man to ! 

I'm glad I've got him safely through one Canto. 



®) 



m^^^--=^ — — '^ 



vr 



• ( 319 ) 



CANTO 11. 



I. 



The Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full, 
Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball — 

Only " her Friday night." The air was cool ; 
And there were people in the house of all 

Varieties, except the pure John Bull. 

The number of young ladies, too, was small — 

You seldom find old John, or his youiig daughters, 

Swimming in very literary waters. 



II. 



Indeed, with rare exceptions, women given 

To the society of famous men. 
Are those who will confess to twenty-seven ; 

But add to this the next reluctant ten, 
And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven. 

For sumptuously beautiful is then 
The woman of proud mien and thoughtful brow ; 
And one (still bright in her meridian now) 



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! 



( '^^^ ) I 

III. 

Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye. 

A creature of a loftier mould was she 
Than in his dreams had ever glided by ; 

And throucrh his veins the blood flew startlinn-ly, 
And he felt sick at heart — he knew not wliy — 

For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see 
Angels look on us with a cold regard, 
(Not knowing those who never left their card.) 

IV. 

She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes 
Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below ; 

And parted on that brow in jetty flakes 

The raven hair swept back with wavy flow, 

Rounding a head of such a shape as makes 
The old Greek marble with the goddess glow. 

Her nostril's breathing arch might threaten storm — 

But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm. 

V. 

And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek wliose red 
Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest : 

And neck set on as if to bear a head — 
May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, — 

So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bed ! 
So proudly rode above the swelling breast I 

And motion, effortless as stars awaking 

And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking ; 



%:W' 



^ 



(321) 

VI. 

And voice delicious quite, and smile that came 

Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled tliro' :- 

These charms I've been particular to name, 
For they are, like an inventory, true. 

And of themselves were stuff enough for fame ; 
But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too, 

And brilliantly her thread of life is spun — 

In verse and beauty both, the " Undying One !" 

VII. 

And song — for in those kindling lips there lay 
Music to wing all utterance outward breaking, 

As if upon the ivory teqjh did play 

Angels, who caucrht the words at their awakins^. 

And sped them with sweet melodies away — 

The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking. 

Of proof to this last fact there's little lack ; 

And Jules, poor lad ! ne'er got his truant back ! 

VIII. 

That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two, 
(I should premise) — all poets being double, 

Living in two worlds as of course they do, 
Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble 

T' explain in lohich they're living, as to you ! 
And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble, 

For who can fairly write a bard's biography. 

When, of his yawc^- world, there's no geography ! 



(*) - 



( 322 ) 

IX. 

Jules was at perfect liberty in fact 

To love again, and still be true in fancy ; 

Else were this story at its closing act, 

Nay, he in fact might wed, and in romance he 

Might find the qualities his sposa lack'd — 

(A truth that I could easier make a man see,) 

And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is 

The calling such stray fancies " infidelities." 

X. 

Byron was man and bard, and Lady B., 

In wishing to monopolize him wholly. 
Committed bigamy, you plain^ see. 

She, being very single, Guiccioli 
Took off the odd one of the wedded three — 

A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy. 
The after sin, which still his fame environs, 
Was giving Guiccioli hoik the Byrons. 

XI. 

The stern wife drove him from her. Had she loved 
With all the woman's tenderness the while. 

He had not been the wanderer he proved. 
Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile ; 

And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved, 

The heart speeds home with far more light a wile. 

The world well tried — the sweetest thing in life 

Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. 



( 323 ) 



XII. 



To poets more than all — for truthful love 

Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness ; 

Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove 
The poet's love when nearest to completeness, 

Must wed the man and let the fancy rove — 
Loose to the air that wing of eager fleetness. 

And smile it home when wearied out — with air, 

But if you scold him, Madam ! have a care ! 

XIII. 

All this time the " Undying One" was singing. 

She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a paiu 
While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing ; 

So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane, 
Whicli rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging, 

He made himself a literary lane — 
Punching and shoving every kind of writer 
Till he got out. (He might have been politer.) 

XIV. 

Free of " the press," he wander'd through the rooms, 
Longing for solitude, but studying faces ; 

And, smitten with the ugliness of Brougham's, 
He mused upon the cross with monkey races — 

(Hieroglyphick'd on th' Egyptian tombs 

And shown in France with very striking traces.) 

" Rejected" Smith's he thought a head quite glorious ; 

And Hook, all button'd up, he took for " Boreas." 



m 



m 



( 324 ) 



XV. 



He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand, 

And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye ; 

And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand, 
While a most royal duke went bowing b}^ — 

Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand — 
Saw Lady Chatterton take snufF and sigh — 

Saw graceful Bulvver say " good-night," and vanish — 
.Heard Crofton Croker's brogue, and thought it Spanish. 

XVI. 

He saw Smith whispering 'something very queer, 
And Hayward creep behind to overhear him ; 

Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear, 

(Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him. 

The error — not the mouth — became quite clear;) 
He saw " the Duke" and had a mind to cheer him. 

And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather. 

And clever Babbage, with his face of leather. 

XVII. 

And there was plump and saucy Mrs. Gore, 
And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie, 

And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore ; 
And there was " devilish handsome" D'Israeli ; 

And not a lion of all these did roar ; 

But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, — 

Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery 

To talk of " porcelain" — 'twas a world of crockery. 



iPS^.- 



■^-=. ^ ^-^■- -.=:=-:^^sr:==,::r^:,=:=:===^=:^ 



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(325) 



XVIII. 



'Tis half a pity authors should be seen! 

Jules thought so, and I think so too, with Julos. 
They'd better do the immortal with a screen, 

And show but mortal in a world of fools ; 
Men talk of " taste" for thunder — but tjiey mean 

Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools ; 
They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade, 
To know — ^just how the oracle is made ! 



XIX. 

WTiat we should think of Bulwer's works — without him, 
His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle ; 

What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him. 
Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal ; 

What of old Lardner, (gracious ! how they flout him !) 
Without this broad — (and Heavy-) side of scandal ; 

What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a " Boz" 

Like Johnson — would be curious questions, coz ! 



XX. 



Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud, 

(Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,) 
But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so Joud, 

And no one asks the god to dinner after ; 
And " Fame's proud temple," build it ne'er so proud. 

Finds notoriety a useful rafter. 
And when you've been abused awhile, you learn 
All blasts blow fair for you— that blow astern f 



P8 



(«) 



( 326 ) 



XXI. 



No ^'- pro^^ without its " con ;^' — the pro is fame, 
Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill ; 

The con is beef and mutton, sometimes game, 
Madeira, sherry, claret, what you will ; 

The ladies' (ajbums) striving for your name ; 
All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill ; 

And " in the gate," an unbelieving Jew, 

Your " Mordecai !" — Why, clearly con^s your cue ! 



XXII. 

5J 



I've " reason'd" myself neat-ly " round the ring, 
While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more, 

And supper being but a heavy thing, 

(To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door, 

And his first night to a conclusion bring ; 
Not (with your kind permission, sir) before 

I tell you what her Ladyship said to him 

As home to Brook-street her swift horses drew him. 

XXIII. 

" You're comfortably lodged, I trust," she said : 
" And Mrs. Mivart — is she like a mother ? 

Have you musquito curtains to your bed ? 

Do you sleep well without your little brother ? 

What do you eat for breakfast — baker's bread ? 

I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather. 

What do you do to-morrow ? — say at five. 

Or four — say four — I call for you to drive ? 



I 
!l 



( 327 ) 

XXIV. 

" There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum — 
Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas ? 

But there's an armadillo — you must see him ! 

And those big-eyed giraffes and heavenly lamas ! 

And — are you fond of music ? — the T.e Deum 
Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas, 

At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air ! 

And you've no hat on ! — let me feel your hair ! 

XXV. 

" Poor boy !" — but Jules's head was on her breast, 
Rock'd like a nautilus in calm mid ocean ; 

And while its curls within her hands she press'd. 
The Lady Jane experienced some emotion : 

For, did he sleep ? or wish to be caress'd ? 

What meant the child ? — she'd not the slightest notion ! 

Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake — 

Trembling and slightly flush'd — but wide awake. 

XXVI. 

Loose rein ! put spur ! and follow, gentle reader \ 
For I must take a Hying leap in rhyme ; 

And be to you both Jupiter and leader, 
Annihilating space, (we all kill time,) 

And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a 
Delight or two, besides the pleasant clime. 

The Lady Jane and he, (I scorn your cavils — 

The Earl was with them, sir !) were on their travels. 

26* 



'4®^i— 



( 328 ) 



XXVII. 



You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic. 

As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Frith of Forth j 

And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic — 
Too delicate to winter so far north ; 

The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic. 
And Lady Jane's condition little worth ; 

So, through celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,) 

They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy. 

XXVIII. 

Oh Italy !— but no !— I'll tell its faults ! 

It has them, though the blood so " nimbly capers" 
Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults, 

That we forget big rooms and little tapers — 
Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz — 

Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers — 
Forget how dully sits, 'mid ancient glory. 
This rich man's heaven — this poor man's purgatory ! 

XXIX. 

Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, he 
Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's ; 

And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity 

To know a land where people are but sticks — 

Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity, 
-But spend your money, if you like, with kicks — 

Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility, 

To welcome golden " Snooks" with base servility. 






k 



( 329 ) 



XXX. 



Jules was not in the poor man's category — 
So Rome's condition never spoilt his supper. 

The deuse (for him) might take the Curtian glory 
Of riding with a nation on his crupper. 

He lived upon a Marquis's first story — 
The venerable Marquis in the upper — 

And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,) 

To do some things at Rome that Romans do. 

XXXI. 

The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter, 
(He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,) 

The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter — 
The friend a noble like himself, the girl 

A diamond of the very purest water ; 
(Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl ;) 

And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove, 

And of a pride their fortunes much above. 

XXXII. 

The Marquis had not much besides his palace, 
The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught ; 

And. one day, died this very Count Pascalis, 
Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought ; 

And, though the Fates had done the thing in malice. 
The old man took her, without second thought, 

And married her. " She's freer thus," he said, 

" And will be young .to marry when I'm dead." 

S3* 



. ( 'm ) 

XXXIII. 

Meantime, she had a title, house, and carriage. 

And, far from wearing chains, had newly burst 'em — 

For, as of course you know, before their marriage 
Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom — 

Not meaning their discretion to disparage, 

But just because they're sure they couldn't trust 'em. 

When wedded, they are free enough — moreover 

The marriage contract specifies one lover. 

XXXIV. 

Not that the Marchioness had one — no, no ! 

Nor wanted one. It is not my intention 
To hint it in this tale. Jules lodo-ed below — 

But his vicinity's not my invention ; 
And, if it seem to you more apropos 

Than I have thought it worth my while to mention. 
Why, you think as the world did — verhum sat — 
But still* it needn't be so — for all that. 

XXXV. 

'Most any female neighbor, up a stair. 

Occasions thought in him who lodges under ; 

And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where 
(A "flight too high" 's a very common blunder.) 

He saw a lady whom he thought as fair 

As " from her shell rose" Mrs. Smith of Thunder. 

Though Venus, I would say were Vulcan by, 

Was no more like the Marchioness than I. 



( 331 ) 

XXXVI. 

For this grave sin there needed much remission ; 

And t' assure it, oft the oifender went. 
The Marquis had a very famous Titian, 

And Jules so often came to pay his rent, 
The old man recommended a physician, 

Thinking his intellects a little bent. 
And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him, 
Till, finally, he couldn't live without him. 

XXXVII. 

And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane, 

Jules paid him back his love ; and there, all day, 

The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain. 

Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gay 

And the old man lived o'er his youth again. 
Seeing those grown-up children at their play — 

His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarcely more, 

'Twas frolic infancy to eighty-four. 

XXXVIII. 

There seems less mystery in matrimony, 
With people living nearer the equator ; 

And early, like the most familiar crony. 
Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter, 

Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, — 
The Marchioness, at toast and coffee later ; 

And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he hid it ; 

And if her dress required " doing" — did it. 



(®) 



i! 

ji 



( 332 ) 

XXXIX. 

iN^ow, though the Marchioness in church did faint once, 
And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill ; 

And though the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones — 
She scarce a woman, and his age octuple — 

'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance. 
To call Jules lover with so little scruple ! 

He'd a caressing way — but la ! you know it's 

A sort of manner natural to poets ! 

XL. 

God made them prodigal in their bestowing ; 

And, if their smiles were riches, ^ew were poor ! 
They turn to all the sunshine that is going — 

Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure — 
Their love at heart and lips is overflowing — 

Tiieir motto, " Trust the future — now is sure !" 
Their natural pulse is high intoxication — 
(Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration.) 

XLI. 

Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion, 
The symptoms are not read by " those who run ;" 

And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion 

To count them but as children of the sun — 

Not to be baited like the " bulls of Bashan," 
Nor liable, like clods, for " one pound one" — 

But reverenced — as Indians rev'rence fools — 

Inspired, tho' God knows how. Well — such was Jules. 



^ m 



( 3:j:i ) 

XLII. 

The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window — 
The window of his heart — and let him in ! 

The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hindoo, 
And she thought loving him could be no sin ; 

And as she loved not yet a^ those who sin do, 
'Twas very well — was't not ? Stick there a pin ! 

It strikes me that so far — to this last stanza — 

The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir ! 

XLIII. 

I have not bored you much with his " abilities," 
Though I set out to treat you to a poet, 

The first course commonly is " puerilities" — 
(A soup well pepper'd — all the critics know it !) 

Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is, 
For " spoons" to stir, and pifffy lips to blow it.) 

Then, poet stufT'd, and by his kidney roasted. 

And last (with " lagrima,^^) " the devil" toasted. 

XLIV. 

High-scream between the devil and the roast. 

But no Sham-pain f Hold there ! the fit is o'er. 

Ohsta jmncipiis — one pun breeds a host — 
(Alarmingly prolific for a bore !) 

But he who never sins can little boast 

Compared to him who goes and sins no more ! 

The "sinful Mary" walks more white in heaven 

Than some who never " sinn'd and were forfrivcn !" 



Q; -== ==.'^=:^-^ @ 



( 334 ) 

XLV. 

Jules had objections very strong to playing 

His character of poet — therefore I 
Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying. 

But though he'd neither phrensy in his eye, 
Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying — 

(A thing he piqued himself on, by the by — ) 
His conversation frequently arose 
To what was thought a goodly flight for prose. 

XLVI. 

His leau ideal was to sink the attic, 

(Though not by birth, nor taste, " the salt above" 
To pitilessly cut the air erratic 

Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love, 
And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic — 

Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove. 
But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey ! 
And .Tules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny. 

XLVII. 

This was one secret of his popularity, 

Men hate a manner colder than their own. 

And ladies — bless their hearts ! love chaste hilaritv 
Better than sentiment — if truth were known ! 

And Jules had one more slight peculiarity — 
He'd little " approbativeness" — or none — 

And what the critics said concern'd him little — 

Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual. 






J 



■K>- 



® 



'JO I ) 



XLVIII. 



XLIX. 



He writes in prose — the public like it betior. 

Well — lei the public ! You may take a poet, 
And he shall write his grandmother a letter, 

And, if he's any thing hut rhyme — he'll show it. 
Prose may be poetry without its fetter, 

And be it pun or pathcs, high or low wit, 
The thread will show its gold, however twisted — 
(I wish the public flatter'd me that this did !) 



L. 



Critics, I say — of course he was in print — 

" Poems," of course — of course " anonymous" — 

Of course he found a publisher by dint 
Of search most diligent, and far more fuss 

Than chemists make in melting you a flint. 

Since that experiment he reckons plus \\ 

Better manure than minus for his bays — 

In short, seeks immortality — " that pays." 



i; 



!| 



No doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels. 

I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so, 
Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's — 

(That is my Sunday reading — so I know,) 
Yet there's Childe Harold — excellent good travels — 

And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe !. 
Rut though a clever verse-r makes a prose-r, j 

About the vice-versa, I don't know, sir! i 



'*»' 



>J 



( 336 ) 

LI. 

Yerser^s a better word than v^,rsijier, 
(Unless 'tis verse on fire, you mean to say,) 

And I've long thought there's something to desire 
In poet's nomenclature, by the way. 

It sounds but queer to laud " the well-known lyre'''' — 
Call a dog " poet !" he will run away — 

And " songster," " rhymester," " bard," and " poetaster, 

Are customers they're shy of at the Astor. 

LII. 

A " scribbler's" is a skittish reputation. 

And weighs a man down like a hod of mortar. 

Commend a suitor's wit, imagination — 

The merchant may think of him for his daughter ; 

But say that " he writes poetry" — n ! 

Her " Pa" would rather throw her in the water ! 

And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove, 

Their bills stand all at pa, iliey much above ! 

LIII. 

Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses ; 

And sometimes did, " forever !" — (for a week !) 
He found for time so many other uses. 

His superfluity was his physique ; 
And exercise, if violent, induces 

Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek ; 
And, (though details are neither here nor tliero,) 
Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair ; 



( :337 ) 

LIV. 

Particularly that of breaking horses. 

The rate of circulation in the blood, 
Best suited to the meditative forces, 

Is quite as far from mercury as mud — 
That of the starry, not the racing-courses. 

No man can trim his style 'mid fire and flood, 
Nor in a passion, nor just after marriage ; 
And, as to Caesar's writing in his carriage, 

LV. 

* Credat Judseus ! Thought is free and easy ; 

But language, unless wrought with lahor limcB, 
Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye ! 

The bee makes honey, but his toil is iliymy, 
And nothing is well done until it tease ye ; 

(Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he !) 
Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking, 
Though monstrous fun, was not a poet's making. 

LVI. 

True — some drink up to composition's glow ; 

Some talk up to it — vide Neckar's daughter! 
But when the temp'rature's a fourth too low. 

Of course you make up the deficient quarter ! 
Like Byron's atmosphere, which, chemists know, 

Required hydrogen — (more gin and water.) 
And Jules's sanguine humor was too high, 
So, of the bottle he had need be shy ! 



A^ 



-/r-:^ 



( 338 ) 

LVII. 

And of society, which made him thin 

With fret and fever, and of sunny sky — 

Father of idleness, the poet's sin ! 

(John Bull should be industrious, by the by. 

If clouds without concentrate thought within,) 

In short, the lad could fag — (I mean soar high) — 

Only by habits, which (if Heaven let her choose) 

His mother would bequeath as Christian virtues ! 

LVIII. 

Now men have oft been liken'd unto streams ; 

(And, truly, both are prone to run down hill, 
And seldom brawl when dry, or so it seems !) 

And Jules, when he had brooded, long and still. 
At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams, 

Felt suddenly his veins with phrensy fill ; 
And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force. 
Ruthlessly rode — if he could find a horse. 

LIX. 

Yes, sir — lie had his freshets like a river, 
And horses were his passion — so he rode, 

When he his prison'd spirits would deliver. 

As if he fled from — some man whom he owed — 

And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver 
Of the young steed in terror first bestrode ! 

Thrilling as inspiration the delay — 

The arrowy spring — the fiery flight away ! 



m- 



( 389 ) 

LX, 

Such riding galls the Muses, (though we know 
Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,) 

But I'd a mind by these details to show 

What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky. 

This hint to his biographer I throw — 

In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey ! 

Though not at all to imitate Apollo ! 

Horse him as well, he'd beat that dabster hollow ! 

LXI. 

'Tis one of the proprieties of story 

To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage ; 
And therefore I have tried to lay before ye 

The qualities of Jules's second age. 
It should wind up with some memenio mori — 

But we'll defer that till we draw the sage. 
The moral's the last thing, (I say with pain,) 
And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane. 

LXII. ■ 

The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy, 

And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired 

The summer palace of Rospigllosi, • 

To get the sun as well as be retired. 

You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see — 
That's if you care to have your fancy fired — 

It's out of Rome — it strikes me on a steep hill — 

A sort of place to go to with nice people. 



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( 340 ) ' 

LXIIT. 

It looks afiectionate, witli all its splendor — • 

As loveable as ever look'd a nest ; 
A palace, I protest, that makes you tender, 

And long for fol de rol, and all the rest. 

Guido's Aurora's there — you couldn't nnend her ; 

And Samson, by Caracci — not his best ; 
But pictures, I can talk of to the million — 
To you, I'll just describe one small pavilion. 

LXIV. 

It's in the garden just below the palace ; 

I think upon the second terrace — no — 
The first — yes, 'tis the first — the orange alleys 

Lead from the first flight down — precisely so ! 
Well — half-way is a fountain, where, with malice 

In all his looks, a Cupid^ — 'hem ! you know 
You needn't notice that — you hurry by, 
And lo ! a fairy structure fills your eye. 

LXV. 

A crescent colonnade folds in the sun. 

To keep it for the wooing South wind only — 

A thinsj I wonder is not oftener done, 

(The crescent, not the wooing — that's my oion lie,) 

For there are months, and January's one, 

When winds are chill, and life in-doors gets lonely, 

And one quite longs, if wind would keep away, 

To sing i' the sunshine, like old King Rene. 



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( -^41 ) 

LXVI. 

The columns are of marble, white as light : 
The structure low, yet airy, and the floor 

A tesselated pavement, curious quite, — 
Of the same fashion in and out of door. 

The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight, 
Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er, 

And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) — 

So the pavilion had an air of comfort. 

LXVll. 

" The frescoes on the ceiling really breathe," 

The guide-books say. Of course they really see : 

And, as I tell you what went on beneath. 
Of course those naked goddesses told me. 

They saw two rows of dazzling Englisli teeth. 

Employ 'd, each morn, on " English toast and .tea ;" 

And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes, 

But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise. 

LXVIII. 

The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung 
Low to the soft eye, and so still ihoy lay, 

Jules knew a tear was hid their thr-eads among, 
And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away. 

The kindly greeting trembled on 'her tongue. 

The hand's faint pressure chill'd his touch like clay. 

And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing. 

With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging. 

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( 342 ) 

LXIX. 

Oh it is darkness to lose love ! — howe'er 

We little prize the fond heart — fond no more ! 

Tlie bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air ! 
Unrecognised are angels, till they soar ! 

And few so rich they may not well beware 
Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore ! 

Yet — hast thou love too poor for tliy possessing ? — 

Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing ! 

LXX. 

You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane 

Loved Mr. Jules. (He's Mr. now — not Master!) 

The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain ; 
And possibly I should have made it last a 

Whole Canto, more or less — but I'll explain. 
Lumping the sentiment one gets on faster ! 

Though it's in narrative an art quite subtle, 

To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle. 

LXXI. 

Good "characters" in tales are "well brought up" — 
(Though, by tliis rule, my Counte'ss Pasibleu 

Is a bad character — yet, just to sup, 

I much prefer her house to a church pew — ) 

But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup, — 
So much a week, — what is a man to do ? 

" ' Tis wished that if a story you begin, you\l • 

Make separate scenes of each 'to he continued.^ ^' 



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( 343 ) 

LXXII. 

So writes plain " Jonathan," who tills my brains 

With view to crop — (the seed being ready money — ) 

And if the " small-lot system" bring him gains, 
He has a right to fence off grave from funny — 

Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes, 

And, I must own, where- one has room to run, he 

Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin, 

So now I'll go to lumping it again ! 

LXXIII. , 

" Love grows, by what" it gives to feed another, 
And not by what "it feeds on." 'Tis divine, 

If any thing's divine besides the mother 

Whose breast, self-blessing, is its holy sign. 

Much better than a sister loves a brother 

The Lady Jane loved Jules, and " line by line. 

Precept by precept," furnish'd him advice ; 

Also much other stuff he thought more nice. 

LXXIV. 

She got him into sundry pleasant clubs, 

By pains that Vomen can take, though but few will I 
She made most of him when he got most rubs ; 

And once, in an inevitable duel, 
She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs — 

But not to hinder ! Faith ! she was a jewel ! 
I wish the star all manner of festivity 
That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity ! 



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( '544 ) ' 

LXXV. 

All sorts of enviable invitations, 

Tickets, and privileges, got she him ; 
Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience, 

(Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) — 
Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations, 

And found for him in church the psalm and hymn ; 
Sent to his "den" some things not found in Daniel's, 
And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels. 

■ LXXVI. 

To set him down upon her way chez elle, 

She stay'd unreasonably late at parties ; 
To introduce him to a waltzing belle 

She sometimes made a cessio dignitatis ; 
And one kind office more that I must tell — ?^ 

She sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is 
If charity like this you find a sin in,) 
In church-time, privately, to air his linen. 

LXXVII. 

Was Jules ungrateful ? No ! Was he obtuse ? 

Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing 
With tenderness, like water in a sluice, — 

Like the sun's shininn;, — like the breeze's blowins;, — 
And fancy thanking them was not much use ? 

Had he the luck of intimately knowing 
Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer ? 
Had he a " friend" suh rosa ? No, sir ! Fie, sir ! 



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( :«5 ) 

LXXVIII. 

Then why neglect her ? Having said he did, 
I will explain, as Brutus did his stab, — 

(Though by my neighbors I'm already chid 
For getting on so very like a crab) — 

Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid, 
Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab — ■ 

A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages, 

And other ties depend on keeping carriages. 

LXXIX. 

Without a carriage men should have no card, 
Nor " owe a call" at all — except for love. 

And friends who need that you the " lean earth lard" 
To give their memories a pasteboard shove. 

On gentlem.en a-foot bear rather hard ! 

It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove ! 

To walk next day half way to Massachusett 

And leave your name — on ladies that won't use it. 

LXXX. 

It really should be taught in infant schools 
That the majority means men, not dollars ; 

And, therefore, that, to let the rich make rules, 
Is silly in " poor pretty little scholars." 

And this you see is apropos of Jules, 

Who call'd as frequently as richer callers 

While he'd a cab ; — but courtesy's half horse — 

A secret those who ride keep snug, of course. 



( :148 ) 

LXXXI. 

I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man,) 
Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane ; 

And, at the start, it was my settled plan, 

(Though I've lost sight of it, I see with pain,) 

To show how moderate attentions can, 

If once she love, a woman's heart retain. 

True love is weak and humble, though so brittle ; 

And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little ! 

LXXXII. 

For instance — Jules's every day routine 

Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early ; 

A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green ; 
(Where, if address'd, he was extremely surly j) 

Five minutes at the Club, perhaps fifteen ; 

Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he 

Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square, 

Where he walk'd in with quite a household air. 

LXXXIII. 

And here he pass'd an hour — or two, or three — 
Just as it served his purpose, or his whim ; 

And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be 
Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim — 

Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity, 

Dress'd ever sumptuously there — for him ! 

With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy, 

Pampering fondly his reluctant eye. 



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( '^47 ) 

LXXXIV. 

And on the silken cushions at her feet 

He daily dream'd these morning hours away, 

Troubling himself but little to be sweet. 
Poets are fond of revery, they say, 

But not with ladies whom they rarely meet. 
And, if you love one, madam, (as you may !) 

And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer. 

Be careful of all manner of toujours / 

LXXXV. 

" Toitjours perdrix" snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit 

Offends the simplest palate, it appears, 
And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to ])lab it,) 

It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, tears. 
The fancy mortally abhors a liahlt ! 

{Not that which Seraphina's bust inspheres !) 
E'en one-tuned music-boxes breed satiety, 
Unless you keep of them a great variety. 

LXXXVI. 

Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East, 

And brought new milk and morning paper daily ; 

The " yield" of both the Editor and beast, 

Great mysteries, unsolved by Brown or Paley ; 

But Jules — not plagued about it in the least — 
Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily ; 

And I^ady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow 

Grew to be like the Editor and cow. 



'^^ 



(348) 

LXXXVII. 

I see you understand it. One may dash on 
A color here — stroke there — and lo ! the story ! 

And, speaking morally, this outline fashion 
Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory. 

I've sketch'd for you a deep and trajiquil passion 
Kindled while nursing up a bard for glory ; 

And, having whisk'd you for that end to London, 

Let's back to Italy, and see it undone. 

LXXXVIII. 

Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi — 
Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall — 

The day delicious and the room quite cozy — 
And yet there were two bosoms full of gall ! 

So lurks the thorn in paths long, soft, and rosy ! 
Jules was not one whom trifles could appal. 

But few things will make creep the lion's mane 

Like ladies in a miff who wont explain ! 

LXXXIX. 

Now I have seen a hadji and a cadi — 

Have sojourn'd among strangers, ofl and long — 

Have known most sorts of women, fair and shady, 
And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng — 

But, in my life, I never saw a lady 

Who had, the least, the air of being wrong ! 

The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil 

We never caught — 'twas she who saw the devil ! 

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( 349 ) 

xc. 

In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners — 
For what was Adam to the " morning star ?" 

She would take precedence — if sins were dinners, 
And hence that self-assured " de liaut en has^' 

So unattainable by men, as sinners. 

Of course, she plays the devil in a fracas — 

Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster, 
^ And argues like her grandmother's old master ! 

XCI. 

And in proportion as the angel fades — 

As love departs — the crest of woman rises — 

Even in passion's softer, lighter shades, 
With aristocracy's well-bred disguises ; 

For, with no tragic fury, no tirades, 
A lady looks a man into a crisis ! 

And, to 'most any animal carnivorous 

Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us ! 

XCII. 

Jules had one thing particular to say, 

The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there, 

With twenty times the mind to be away. 
Uncomfortable seem'd the stufTd arm-chair 

In which the Earl would sometimes pass the day ; 
And there was something Roman in the air ; 

For every effort to express his errand 

Ended in " um !" — as 'twere a Latin gerund. 

30 



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( ;'>50 ) 

XCIII. 

He had received a little billet-doux 

The night before — as plain as A B C — 

(I mean, it would appear as plain to you, 

Though very full of meaning, you'll agree) — 

Informing him that by advice quite new 
The Earl was going now to try the sea ; 

And begging him to have his passport vised 

For Venice, by Bologna — if he pleased ! 

xciv. 

Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's 

The gentle missive elegantly ran — 
A sort of note the writer don't care who sees, 

For you may pick a flaw in't if you can — 
But yet a stern experinientum crucis, 

Quite in the style of Metternich, or Van, — 
And meant — without more flummery or fuss — 
Stay with your Marcliioness — or come with us ! 

xcv. 

Here was to be " a parting such as wrings 

The blood from out young hearts" — for Jules would t'tay ! 

The bird she took unfledged had got its wings, 
And, though its cage be gold, it, must away! 

But this, and similar high-color'd things. 
Refinement makes it difficult to say ; 

For, higher " high life" is, (this side an attic,) 

The more it sli rinks from all that looks dramatic. 



. ( ^Dl ) 
XCVI. 

Hence, words grow cold as agony grows hot, 
'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades; 

And though the truth but coldly end the plot, 
(There really is no pathos for you, ladies !) 

Jules cast the die with simply « I think not !" 

And her few words were guarded as he made his; 

For rank has one cold law of Moloch's makino- 

Death, before outcry, while the heart is breaking/ 

xcvii. 
She could not tell that boy how hot the tear 

That seem'd within her eyeball to have died 

She could not tell him her exalted sphere 

Had not a hope his boyish love beside: 
The grave of anguish is a human ear — 

Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride ! 
And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonely, 
With her heart lock'd on that dumb sorrow only ! 

XCVIII. 

Calm, in her " pride of place," moves Lady Jane- 
Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold— 

So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain 
Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd. 

She loved too late to dream of love again. 
And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old ! 

A star, on which a spirit had alighted 

Once, in all time, were like a life so blighted ! 



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( 352 ) 

XCIX. 

So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread 
Which we have foUow'd in its rosy weaving ! 

Yet merrily, still on, tlie shuttle sped. 

Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving ; 

But. that an angel from his path had fled, 
He was not long in mournfully believing. 

And " ano-el watch and ward" had fled with her — 

For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err ! 

c. 

Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings. 

Or so some pleasant allegory goes,) 
And Jules at many a bright light burnt his wings. 

His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows ; 
But, while one passion best in metre rings, 

Another is best told in lucid prose. 
As to the Marchioness, I've half a plan, sir ! 
To limn her in the quaint Spenserian stanza. 









